Log of the End of the World
by Writer of a Thousand Colors
Summary: I don't care what the cover of this book says in fancy golden script, because it's lying. This is not a diary. This is a log about the ending of the world." Everything breaks, even Nations, but their words remain.
1. Chapter 1

___DATE: _________

I don't care what the cover of this book says in fancy golden script, because it's lying. This is not a diary. This is a log about the ending of the world, because even if all my people die, someone can find this, years from now, and remember what idiots we all were, we Nation-people.

I dug this book out of the ruins of a building. I can't tell what it used to be; a house, maybe. I think this area was a neighborhood once, but you can never been sure any more.

Pages are ripped and burned, and I keep having to pause to find the next page that isn't destroyed. There's some other writing here, in another hand, loopy and hard to read.

This used to be someone's diary. This book that I'm using to record the ending of the world in used to belong to someone else.

When I have a moment, I pause, and flip through the pages with that other person's writing, and I wonder about this book's last owner. It belonged to a girl, I believe. I can't imagine any boy owning a pale purple book with "diary" written on the cover in fancy script. The handwriting is graceful and loopy, and on the few bits not entirely burned, I can make out entries about school, boys and friends.

Normal things. Human things.

Normality, humanity; they both are missing from the world now.

The world ended five months ago.

It didn't really end, because I'm still here, writing in this journal. If I'm alive, my people are alive, and I know other Nation-people like me are here still. Not as many as there once were; the earth took far too much of a beating.

No, not many Nation-people are left now. There is me, Germany. And there is Italy, both of them, too full of life to die, even now. Spain, although badly weakened, too hard-headed to give in, even now. China, because that man will live forever. Japan, because he's too stubborn to die. England, too determined to live. France, because he loves life more than anything else. Prussia, because he's too awesome to die. A few others live, although I haven't seen them.

England prays every day that America survived, France frets about Canada. But we have no way of crossing the Atlantic. All boats and planes were destroyed. We're stuck on this side of the world, searching for others who may have survived.

Romano refuses to leave Spain. The end of the world has shocked all the bitterness out of him, and he is quieter, almost kinder. Romano is always by Spain, one hand touching him in case he falls. He doesn't fight with Spain, doesn't irritate me.

I miss the way he was before the world ended. It's a silly thing to say, yes. But when Romano was grumpy and surly and refused to admit what he really felt, it meant that the world was still normal. That everything was fine. That I would have to suffer through another moronic world meeting, that I would be dragged out to lunch (pasta, of course) by Italy, that my brother would be passed out on the couch at home, beer bottles stacked on the table.

But world meetings no longer happen, Italy has lost his taste for pasta, and my brother can no longer bring himself to talk about how awesome he is.

Italy is even quieter then his brother, and he clings to me. He's sitting not far away right now, helping England dig out the body of a four-year-old girl. His lips are pressed too tightly together and his eyes are red from crying, but he is silent as he pulls her body out from under the wreckage.

I don't like this change in him. Italy cried before this, but never from real sadness. It was always from something else; fear, anger, happiness, but never sadness.

The four-year-old girl was badly burned, and the flesh is peeling away from her face. Her eyes, brown as chocolate, are unseeing. We have all seen thousands of bodies since that day, but this one is truly awful. My throat burns from bile, and even England turns away, but Italy just brushes the rubble off her body and smooths down her choppy hair before lifting her gently into his arms.

We are burying as many bodies as we can in a field not far from here, with a rock to mark the head of each one. There are thousands of rocks in that field now, and we are not finished with this city yet.

Italy is walking towards me now, still holding the girl's body to his chest.

"I knew this child," he says, and his voice is strained. I'm still writing, and he doesn't wait for me to respond before he continues, speaking slowly so I can copy every word down.

"Her name is Felicita. It means happiness, you know. I thought it was funny, the first time I met her, because her name sounded like mine. Feliciano. Felicita. Her mother worked for my boss, and Felicita would come in with her every once in a while to say hi to me. She was funny, sweet, and I thought... I had thought she would be a beautiful lady later on."

He sighs heavily, and turns away, walking back towards England. I'm still copying down what he said, and I know it makes me seem rude, but this must be done. Something must remind people about this time, of our losses and miseries. Someone has to remember a four-year-old girl named Felicita who died before she could ever really live.

Someone has to remember.

The world ended five months ago because of our arrogance. Even now, I don't know precisely how it all started, but guns and bombs and death and hatred were involved, and my country's streets were awash in blood. Bombs are bigger, badder in this age, or at least they were. No one has any love for bombs now.

This journal will be handed to the other Nations still living, so they may fill in their piece. We will die eventually, we Nation-people, and what we must say must be said now. Warnings must be left, and blessings given.

To the future generations who might chance upon this book, here is my warning: The world can fall out from under you in less then a moment, and everything you care about can fall apart in front of your eyes.

My blessing: Remember us; us Nations who might fade. Remember Italy, Prussia, Germany, Spain, England, France, China, Japan and the others. Learn from these old fools, and do not follow in our footsteps.

What I must say: I'm sorry for everything I, as a Nation, have done, and I'm sorry for everything I, as a human, have not. There are things I wish I could say to Italy that never find form, thanks I wish to give my brother that dies on my tongue. There are things I wish I could undo, and things I wish I could start, but it's too late for that now.

Bodies must be buried, the survivors must be fed. My entry is done, and this journal, this log, will be passed on for another's blessing, warning, words.

There is nothing left that I must say.

-Germany

_----_

_**Author's Note**_

_**It's a lot like some of my other stuff; but I might add on to this, if enough people say they like it. **_

_**Who's entry should be next, people? France, England, Prussia or Spain?  
**_


	2. Spain

_DATE: _

_Five hundred years ago, Lovino asked me where I thought we would be in a thousand years from that moment. I said I just hoped we would be happy, and he'd still be with me. He said he'd wait the thousand years out just to laugh at me if I was wrong._

_There's five hundred years left to reach that thousand year mark, to see if I was right and Lovi and I will be here and happy, but sometimes I wonder if we will be here in five hundred years. With the way the others talk and look, you would think we won't survive until then. But I think we just might, even with everything that has happened._

_The world ended because of a war; so bad that World Wars I and II fade in comparison. That's what the others say; that the world ended and it's just a matter of time until we're all dead._

_But it hasn't ended. If it really had ended, would I be sitting here, on a makeshift bench, Lovi asleep at my side as the sun beats down on my head? Would there be birds chirping and the rise and fall of a survivor's voice in song as she beats together some ground herbs to rub on wounds? If the world was truly over, would I hear the laughter of children at play and the murmurs of the adults as they complete their tasks?_

_I don't think the world has ended; I believe something is testing us. God, maybe. Or something else. But our world was so full of evil things before that war even – starvation, invasions, lies, failing economies, twisted politicians – that maybe we shouldn't see this as the end of the world, but a chance to make things right._

_But the others are still convinced that we're all going to die sooner or later; which is why Germany has us writing in this diary, I suppose. He says it isn't a diary, it's something for the new generations to come to remember us by._

_It strikes me as funny that someone who believes that the world's dead wants to leave a book behind for people to read._

_But Germany won't listen to any protests. He said there is no reading of other entries allowed, because what we say must be secret and that privacy must be respected, but I doubt that rule will hold up for long. Lovi will read my entry, and Gilbert will read everyone's entry because they're just like that._

_I'm not sure what to say, but my pen can't stop moving and putting down meaningless words on these ruined pages of a lost child's diary. Lovi is asleep next to me, his head resting on my shoulder, and his weight is comfortable, grounding like an anchor. Gilbert is arguing with Francis; I can hear their voices, although they don't sound angry. More tired than anything else._

_Can't they see that if they act like the world's ended, it might as well? Just because some of our Nations have died does not mean we ourselves will join them. Just because we have lost best friends and siblings does not mean we should lay down ourselves. If anything, it means we should work for the future._

_Maybe that is what Germany is trying to do in his own way with this journal._

_Germany and England are heading towards us now, carrying the shovels we use for hasty burials in a field not far from here. They look so very tired, and Germany keeps glancing over his shoulder as if he's searching for something._

_Germany pauses by me and Lovi as England passes us by, heading for Francis and Gilbert. Germany doesn't say anything, just watches silently as I write. He'd given me this journal earlier today and explained what it was for, but this is the first time I've seen him since then. He looks so much more fragile now than he did before the War, and it reminds me of that look in his eyes after World War II ended._

_He looks haunted, like a thousand ghosts are chasing him, whispering in his ear, trying to pull him away with them. Haunted is the look almost everyone has now, and how can we not look that way? Children have died at our feet, adults have passed on pulling on our legs, and there was nothing we could do about it._

_But just because millions of people – people who lived, laughed, cried - have died does not mean we should give up and let millions more of living, laughing, crying people go._

_Germany mumbles something about Italy after a moment and turns around to walk back the way he came. Germany was always a strange one; too strict and too blindingly loyal. Almost too loyal to the country he has represented for hundreds of years._

_That's another thing about the others' end-of-the-world belief that I just can't understand. We have all lived for hundreds of years, we are our people combined into one being, our lands turned human. If we survived that war that wiped out some of us, who is to say we can't survive the next few days, weeks, years?_

_Maybe even centuries._

_Maybe I will be around five hundred years from now, Lovi at my side, laughing because we'll both be remembering that day five hundred years ago and I'll have proved him wrong. Maybe the world will be flourishing again, maybe people will laugh from real joy and cry from something other than utter despair._

_Or we could all be dead, but I really don't like the sound of that last choice._

_Lovi is shifting around, meaning he's about to wake up. Before the war, if he woke up after falling asleep on me, he'd bluster about, turning red, and end up drumming on my back as he shrieked in my ear, telling me to stop laughing and take him seriously for just a moment!_

_But now he just sits up and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, staring at me through his messy bangs. He's asking me what I'm doing, so I must make the last part of this quick. Germany says we must give a blessing, put down a warning, and say what we feel we could never voice aloud._

_My blessing to those who read this: Live each day as if you'll never have another just like it, because you won't. Hold tight to your friends, smile at everything and nothing, and do whatever makes you happy._

_My warning: You must live each day as if it's your last. Sometimes people vanish and things break, and all you're left with is the memory of them._

_What I must say is simply this: Lovino, I know you're going to read this, so this is for you. Every time I told you I love you, it was the whole truth. I treasured everything about you – your angry words that I know you never meant, the small gestures of kindness and concern you tried to brush off later, your very rare smile. You should smile more often, Lovi, especially now. The world needs more laughter and joy, now more than ever._

_Lovi, I hope that you're around five hundred years from now, and happy, even if I'm not there with you. You're awake now, and we're both hungry, so I'll set this aside. I've said everything I've needed to, and I know that later, after I give this to you, explained the rules and gone off to find something else to do, you're going to turn to my pages right away, so just know that I love you, Lovi, no matter what._

_I've said everything I can._

_- Spain_

-----

**Author's Note**

**I wrote Spain's entry to be a lot lighter than Germany's on purpose; I don't think that Spain would see the ending of the world as a death setence for all humanity. Romano's entry is next.  
**


	3. Romano

_Date: Who knows?  
_

_I don't know how he does it. The world's fucking blown to bits around us, our people lie dead in the streets, but he still believes everything's going to be all right, that we're going to still be here five hundred years from now. He still believes that he's going to prove me wrong on that question I asked him so long ago._

_I can't even believe he remembers that moment five hundred years ago. I thought he had forgotten it._

_Antonio gave me this book earlier before walking off to find Prussia. I flipped to his entry first, and read every thing that he had written there._

_He's so cheerful, even now. Even with our lands in ruins, our people dead or dying, he still hopes. He still cares, and still tries his hardest to believe._

_I hate him so much sometimes._

_Rome was burned to the ground over a year ago. I never found out the date of that day, and it never even got a mention in the newspapers because there was too much death to report at that time. But Rome burned, was destroyed by a bomb that Russia dropped on it, and I felt every second of it._

_There's a scar on my chest from that, raised and puckered and so god dammed hideous. But before it was a scar, it was a wound, huge and gaping and there was so much blood and I felt..._

_...I honestly thought I was about to die. I was so cold, and burning hot, and I couldn't move, speak, breathe...I couldn't do anything but lie there and try not to scream. My vision swam; I saw colors I've never even thought existed dance in front of me, and my head felt like it was splitting down the middle._

_When I woke up, I was lying on my bed, bandages wrapped around my chest, and Antonio was sitting next to my bed, my hand clenched around his fingers._

_I'd been squeezing so tightly that I broke three fingers on his right hand._

_But he never said a thing about it, just held me and asked me how many died, and the concern in his voice made me want to hit him. I couldn't hurt him though, because fighting with Antonio then would have been stupid. I just had to watch, silently, as he wrapped up his hand, and wait for it to heal. I couldn't even apologize._

_Those fingers are still crooked, and every time I see them, bent slightly, I have to look away before the guilt overwhelms me._

_He never mentioned that at all in his journal entry. He didn't mention the bombing of Madrid, either, or a hundred other cities of his that burned to the ground. He didn't mention the scars he carries now. He's still cheerful, and still focused on others._

_He didn't mention how the war started, either._

_I remember its beginnings, or at least some of it. Russia, Iraq and America are to blame here. Russia offered Iraq nuclear weapons because Iraq was still edgy, even though America pulled his troops out of his house years ago. America heard of that, but didn't hear Iraq's refusal, declared war on Russia and Iraq. Iraq declared war on both Russia and America, and somehow, it grew, and the fighting spread, until we were all involved in it._

_It really was a World War._

_But I can't make myself hate them. I can't hate Russia, or America, or even Iraq. Russia died – we found and buried his body last week by the ruins of Moscow. Iraq is missing – alive or dead, we have no idea. And America is on the other side of the ocean; we have no way of reaching him._

_Antonio says I have gotten quieter, gentler. Maybe all my hatred was worn out during the war, or maybe I never had as much hate as I thought I did. Maybe I'm just tired of hatred; I don't even know any more._

_Feliciano is asleep on the ground by me – there are no beds. Earlier he came to me crying. He found Felicita's body in the ruins of her house, he said. She was burned, and her legs crushed. He buried her in the field by himself._

_This is why I hated for as long as I did. People die and people leave, people you love and trust, and nothing you can do or say can make them stay. Feli cared for Felicita – and even I liked her, she was bubbly and cute and so full of life – and now she's dead. Dead like a thousand other Italians, a million other humans. And my brother's even more of a wreck than he was before._

_I'm still not sure what I should be writing in this stupid book. Antonio said to write anything, because the potato bastard wants to leave this behind in case we die. Write as much as you want, just include a warning, a blessing, and something you want to say._

_I keep pausing to reread what I wrote, then to flip back to Antonio's section to see his once more. I'm not sure if I'm even reading his entry any more, or if I just have it memorized by now._

_Antonio said to write anything in this book, and no one would read it. But in his entry, he said he knew Prussia would read everyone's entry, and that makes me wonder if I should write what I really want to write. It makes me wonder if I should lock up what I have to say inside of me for just a little while longer._

_But then I remember that we might not have that much longer here, that we might die anyway, even after everything we've lived through and everything we've seen and everything we couldn't do and seeing people we wanted to save be couldn't save die._

_And it makes me think that for once, I shouldn't be afraid._

_So here's my blessing: Don't run. Don't be afraid. I've hidden my whole life, my brother ran away from everything as long as I can remember. It didn't help in the end, and sometimes I wonder what I missed by hiding behind a mask of hatred and lies._

_My warning is that people do vanish, do leave. Sometimes it can break you when they leave, and sometimes it just makes you stronger. But just try and hold on to them while they're there._

_What I want to say is...Antonio, I just...I can't say everything I want to to you. There's something I've always wanted to say, something you've told me a thousand times, that I wish I could respond to, but..._

_I can't do it, not even in this stupid book. Maybe I'll tell you one day. Or maybe you already know what I'm trying to say, and I won't need to._

_-Romano_

_----_

**Author's Note:**

**Romano is so OC it's not even funny. And half his journal entry was focusing on Spain, for cryin' out loud. I fail at writing from Romano's point of view.**

**Also, some things about the story I want to make clear 'cause some people have asked me about them.**

**1. I think that the countries calling each other by their human names is like talking to somone in the "tu" form in Spanish or adding "-chain/-kun" onto the end of a name in Japan instead of "-san". I just think it's more familiar.**

**2. Yes, Russia's dead. America's going to be either dead or alive depending on how happy I am when I write about him. The happier I am, the more likely it'll be that he died. No, that doesn't make any sense, not even to me.**

**3. The warning/blessing/secret thing was just something to end on, I really don't know if their warnings/blessings/secrets are in character at all. Probably not.**

**Next chapter is either going to be by N. Italy or Prussia. If ya reviewed for the previous chapters, you are awesome and I would give ya a cookie if I could.  
**


	4. Prussia

_DATE: God knows  
_

_We found Elizaveta's body today._

_She was crushed in the remains of a hospital, bandages still in her arms. Her face was smashed and her chest crushed, but it was definitely her, and that just made this whole "end-of-the-world" thing West keeps going on about real for the first time._

_It didn't feel real before it. It felt like a bad movie, something you watch with a bunch of friends and some cheap beer, something that was so cheesy and lame that you think it would never happen. It felt like something that would just stop after a while, and I could go back to pestering West and annoying Elizaveta and drinking with Francis and Antonio and plotting about how to become my own country again._

_Ha._

_I can't believe how moronic I was sometimes._

_Not that I will ever admit it out loud, of course. Someone has to keep a sense of normality, to remind the others of how we were before that god dammed war. I try to be that person, but sometimes I wonder how far off the mark I am. West mentioned how different I am in his entry, Antonio how exhausted I was in his._

_England and West are burying Eliza's body now with everyone else. I couldn't watch them do it, and so I'm sitting here, hidden by a worn-out tarp, hiding. I don't want to see her face again, bloody and crushed and broken, because that's not Elizaveta._

_Elizaveta was psychopathic, rude, tough, evil-minded and the craziest bitch I knew. She was strong, tomboyish, violent, unladylike. She couldn't sit still, didn't listen to a word I said, and beat the shit out of anyone who even tried to oppose her._

_She was the last person I ever pictured dying, in all honesty._

_She'd probably be pissed off if she knew I was skipping her pathetic funeral. And her funeral is going to be pathetic. We have no time for a real funeral with a priest and a coffin and flowers, so the funerals are just a hole dug into the ground, a few quick words, and then a plain rock shoved into the dirt above their heads._

_It's the same funeral for everyone, even the Nations. But Eliza didn't deserve it. No one deserves something so hasty and anonymous, not even Russia. It almost makes me feel like I'm failing them, the deceased._

_No one's bothered to write a list of the dead yet – maybe they just don't want to think about it; who's dead and who's living in this crummy excuse of a world. There's been so many dead Nations already, and we're still not done, but neither West nor Antonio nor that Romano kid bothered to included a list._

_We found Poland, Finland, Belarus, Russia, Estonia, and Latvia dead, and gave them hasty burials by Moscow. We haven't found Sweden, Lithuania, Denmark or Norway yet, and Turkey's up by their homes now, looking for them. China and Japan went to check out the East, but we haven't heard from them in three weeks at least. Greece is looking around in Africa. England and Francis are trying to build a boat to reach North America with._

_So many dead, and so many we have left to find. We can't find Roderich's body, and I almost wish we won't, if it'll look anything like Eliza's. I don't want to ever see anything like that ever again._

_And I feel weird, too. Like something is sitting on my chest, crushing my ribs until they threaten to snap. My eyes ache and breathing hurts, like someone's shoved cotton balls into my mouth. I want to destroy something, break anything, scream until my throat bleeds...I need to not feel this hollow ache inside of me anymore because it's eating me alive and I have no idea about how to stop it._

_God damn you, Eliza._

_You're hurting me even in death._

_I don't know what to do anymore._

_I can't handle pretending I'm strong, and I can't pretend like the war didn't happen. I can't hide because there's no where to run to, at least not for long. There's no way for me to hide from that fact that Eliza really is dead and Roderich might be as well._

_It's like one of those horror movie monsters that stalk the main character. They know it's there, and try to deny it that it is, even if it's breathing on their necks and following their every move. There's no way to escape from it. It's a nightmare, their personal demon, a creature from hell._

_My life has turned into a god dammed horror movie, only all the monsters exist in my head. When I look around me, I don't see monsters. Hell, half the time I don't even see people. I see walking corpses, people who are already dead and just going through the motions of living._

_It's pathetic, but I'm not one to talk._

_I keep thinking about life I had before the war, the life where I argued with the others at the world meetings and drank all of West's beer, where there was always too much food in the refrigerator and Eliza and Roderich to annoy, and for the first time I see why people say you don't know what you had until it's gone._

_I would give anything to go back to those times, because even Eliza beating the shit out of me with a frying pan was better than seeing her empty eyes and burying a thousand icy-cold corpses, watching everyone loose a little more hope with each and every passing day._

_I can hear West calling for me now. I don't want to go see what he wants just yet. Leaving this tarp and this journal means I have to go out and find more bodies and try and wrap my head around the fact that it really was Elizaveta West just buried, and I'm never going to see her again._

_But I have no choice. There's so much I've been forced to give up, and so much I've lost, and so much I'm still going to loose. There's a million dead, and a million missing, and I feel sick to my stomach and so empty and lost. And I just don't want to hang on. I want to just give up._

_I'm not going to bother with writing down a stupid warning or blessing, but there is still something I want to say._

_Eliza...I'm going to miss you. The world's gone silent without you in it, and now that I know you're gone I'm forced to wonder what the hell I'm living for. There's a million ways I could have told you everything I wanted to, but just couldn't and now...it's too late, and you're gone._

_Roderich, if you're dead, maybe you're the lucky one this time around. You'll get to see Eliza, and play your piano all you want, and not have to fight with yourself as you try to remember who the hell you are. And if you're still alive, at least I'll have some company in this hell on earth._

_West...I don't know what to say. You're my brother, and my family, and the only person I really have left now, the only reason I haven't killed myself yet._

_My chest hurts and my eyes are burning, but West'll kill me if I get any water on this stupid book. I'll just give it to someone else now, because there's nothing left for me to say._

_- Prussia_

_----_

**Author's Note:**

**Prussia's...so...OC...it kills me...**

**Anyway, who's next, peeps? England or France?**

**Also, if you reviewed last chapter, you're awesome, and I hope ya like this one!  
**


	5. France

_DATE:_

_I wish this was all just a bad dream._

_But I know it's not. Watching people crumble into themselves, uncovering crushed bodies, staring at the sunrise and feeling a bone-aching weariness with the knowledge that I have to get up and try to get through another day...I might pray for it to be a dream, but it's one I can't wake up from, no matter how hard I try._

_I am worried for the others, even if I do not admit it aloud very often. Arthur can't seem to accept what happened, Gilbert can't move away from the past, Antonio can't fully comprehend the full extent of our situation. Feliciano is broken and trying to mend, Ludwig is trying to do too much, Lovino trying to understand who he is._

_They're all breaking, and I wonder if I'm broken as well. Or if I'm just still falling and have yet to hit the ground._

_We buried Elizaveta yesterday morning, and Sealand this afternoon. Arthur found the poor boy trapped underneath a lamppost in the ruins of London, and I have never seen him look so utterly...so utterly destroyed in all the years I have known him._

_Because that is what he looked like; like everything had fallen down to the ground in front of him. I have known him a thousand years at least, and I have never seen him look so completely defeated. Not when Alfred fought against him, not during the World Wars, not when his colonies left him and his empire collapsed._

_It saddens me, and drives home the reminder that the world is not what I am used to it being anymore. It hasn't been what I was used to it being for a long time, and I wonder if it will ever return to normality._

_The sun is rising now, and it's beautiful. Even though the light is cast upon broken buildings and dying people, the sky is still gorgeous. Pastel pink and pale lavender, warm gold and fiery orange, and to the west, the last traces of the indigo night. Clouds soak up the color like canvas does paint and spill it out again, mixing the sunrise across the sky._

_The sunrise is something I wake early just to see, because even now, it still feels like hope. It still feels like a promise that something wonderful might happen today, and I will have a reason to truly smile for the first time in months._

_Logically, I know this is foolish. Nothing wonderful happens now, it feels like. We uncover the bodies of the dead, try to care for survivors, and attempt to rebuild our lives. Life is brutally simplistic now, but I still can't let go of the hope that one day, that will change._

_Maybe I am a fool, but hope is all I have left now._

_Hope is what is making me build a boat I know will never float in an attempt to reach the America twins. It won't float, it isn't seaworthy and we don't have enough food to be able to make a journey, especially with all the survivors to care for, but if I didn't have this to work on, I think I would go mad. Even though I know it's never going to be used, I am still creating something._

_I can't tell Arthur of this, even though I am sure that he knows as well as I that what we are building is a fool's dream, and we are stupid to think that we could use it to sail across the Atlantic. The boat we are building is only a reminder of what's beyond our reach._

_For me, what is beyond my reach is Matthew, and this failure just awakens me to the fact that years may pass before I see him again. Or that I may never see him again at all, and that hurts me even more than any wound._

_I have to take so many breaks from building our unusable boat that we're never going to be able to use, and I help Ludwig, Gilbert and Feliciano with clearing away the ruins of buildings, setting aside bricks and stones we can use to rebuild homes later, uncovering bodies and cellars full of wonderful things._

_During the war, people buried their favorite belongings in underground rooms, and now those rooms are sometimes our only lifeline. We find everything we need in there – tools, canned food, can openers, camp stoves, tents, blankets, clothing, and even things we do not need, but keep because they are such a beautiful reminder of the past – guitars, books, paintings, toys._

_I have found so many beautiful things, and every time I find one, it both breaks my heart and strengthens my belief that I am right to continue to hold onto hope. We can reconstruct what we once had, except this time, maybe we'll be able to avoid weapons and disease and war._

_That is what I pray for, at least._

_That is why I'm grateful that some people buried things like guitars and books, because those remind me of the better side of humanity. War, especially a war as bloody as the one we all just fought in, make you forget what is good about humans. It's hard to remember the good side of them when you're surrounded by constant reminders of their bad side._

_That is what I look for as much as I look for bodies or building materials. The better parts of humanity, because I need that reminder, now more than ever. I need to be able to believe that we are not just killing machines who doomed the whole earth. I have to believe that there is goodness inside all of us._

_And I see so many things that make me believe that maybe I should hang on for just a while longer. The surviving children play outside with a small ball Ludwig uncovered somewhere in London. Friends sit in groups when evening falls and talk, holding each other close as they crowd in around fires. Adults read stories to children when they have a moment, and build dolls with things they unearth._

_And it's not just in the mortal humans I see these small touches of affection and caring. I see them in the Nations as well._

_Ludwig found a bottle of beer for his brother in one of the buried rooms, and he and Feliciano sat and listened as he cried after Elizaveta's funeral, chugging down that one bottle of beer. I have never seen Ludwig listen to Gilbert for any real amount of time before this, never mind actually try and comfort him. But grief does strange things to people, I suppose. Lovino is never far away from Antonio, and even from where I'm sitting now, I can see them, sleeping with Lovino's head resting against Antonio's shoulder. Lovino would have never allowed that before the war, but things have changed so much that I can't keep track of them, and Antonio touches Lovino without punishment._

_It almost makes me smile, because they have all changed so much in such a short period of time, saying things and doing things they would have never done before the war._

_I wonder what I will do when I find Matthew, sometimes, and how he has changed._

_I know I have changed. I know that I am no longer so flirtatious, so wild, so...what was that word Arthur always uses on me? Perverted, that is it. I'm not the France – Francis – I used to be. No one is the person they used to be, the world is not what we remember. Changes are only to be expected, I suppose._

_To those who find this journal and read it, remember that there are two sides to every story, something light in a sea of black. In this post-apocalyptic world, it is the gestures of caring and compassion, the tiny things that make us human that shine out through a fog of endless night. We are human because of our ability to love, not because of our ability to destroy. We are human because we feel grief and anger, joy and fear. We are human simply because we feel so much._

_To Matthew, I pray that we will find you. I pray every night that you're still alive, and even though I know the boat Arthur and I are building will never reach you, I build it because I have to believe I will find you, somehow._

_There are a thousand things left that I wish I could say, but none of them I have words for. There are things to be built and find, but for now I am done with writing and will take just a few selfish moments to watch the sun finish rising._

_- France_

_----_

**Author's Note**

**Writing from France's POV was probably the most difficult, and he's also the most OC. I based all of his depression off of my best friend, who also happens to be (extremely) French. **

**My friend, when she's depressed, goes into this more self-reflective mode. She doesn't obsess over people that she usually obsesses over; just gets away from them for a while. She has the most beautiful language when she's talking, especially when she's upset. She's also somewhat selfish and self-centered, but she's one of the best people I know, and she acts (very much) like France does. She even looks like him, and while it's disturbing, she also manages to pull it off.  
**

**Anyway, I'd like some advice on how the story's going so far. I'm trying to write a story to publish, so if you have anything to point out, please tell me! I don't mind how harsh you get; I need to improve and want to by any way possible.**

**Thank you for reading, and I hope that you liked what I have so far.  
**


	6. All

The journal doesn't slam shut impressively, and France is almost disappointed. A book that held as much grief and prayers as this one did _needed _to be able to be slammed, needed to make a loud noise as it was shut. But this one made hardly any noise at all, and it just seems somehow _wrong_.

The air is brisk, and France is shivering as he gets to his feet, tucking the journal inside of his coat pocket. He tilts his head back and squints at the still-colorful sun, trying to remember what time of year it is. September? October? Close enough to winter that he should be putting more effort into building shelters than a useless boat.

He sighs, then turns on his heel to start clambering over the piles of rubble that litter the ground, heading towards the smoke curling from a campfire in the middle of their camp, passing sleeping people and Nations on his way to the warm flames.

Germany is already up and kneeling besides the fire, fanning it gently with half of a broken plastic plate. He abandoned his military uniform months ago, and the t-shirt and jeans he wears now are streaked with dirt and soot, his hair limp and hanging in his worn face.

He doesn't look up as France settles himself on the other side of the flames, but mutters, "Morning" as he continues to fan, blowing the smoke into France's face. It makes his eyes sting, and his throat burn, but he doesn't care.

"Good morning," France replies, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees, watching the fire dance. His body aches, but he ignores it as he asks, "What's for breakfast?"

Germany snorts as he drops his broken plate, getting to his feet and brushing off the knees of his jeans. "Same thing we've had for the last five months. Canned soup." France wrinkles his nose, but doesn't say anything as Germany pulls over the large soup pot they use for meals and sets it up over the fire.

"We're going to have to plant a garden soon," a voice says from behind him, and France twists his neck to see Spain sitting on top of a stack of bricks, staring up at the sky, hair hanging in front of his bright green eyes.

"Winter's coming; it would just die. And we don't have any seeds, anyway." Germany replies, opening can after can into the pot. Spain grins and shakes his head, sliding down to stand next to France.

"Not true. There were some seed packets in the cellar Lovino and I found yesterday. We have heat lamps that need batteries, batteries, soil, and at least a thousand underground rooms that we don't need. We could set up an underground garden."

"Like a primitive greenhouse?" France asks, and Spain nods, still smiling. France glances down at the ground for a moment, then nods slowly. "It might be a good idea."

Germany chuckles without humor as he pours another can into the pot, the liquid landing with a plop. "You can try it; but I don't think it will work."

Spain shakes his head, smiling gently. "It might though. Germany, have you given any more thought to using some of the underground rooms for the winter? We can rebuild houses during the colder months, and it would be a shame not to take advantage of what we have now."

Germany doesn't reply for a moment, and there is silence as Germany empties one last can into the pot and sits back down, crossing his arms across his chest as he watches the flames. "...We're going to have to use them," he says finally, "There's no way we'll be able to build any suitable shelter by the time the snow falls, and we can't afford to lose any more people."

Spain beams, getting to his feet. "We should have people sort into groups today and they can decide what rooms they want," he says aloud, tapping his chin with one finger, rocking back and forth. "And we can divide up things we've found – blankets and books and the like."

Germany sighs and rubs his temples with one hand before listing off orders in a drained voice. "Spain, you're in charge of making sure that everyone has a room for the winter. Tell Gilbert that if he feels up to it, I want him to distribute the heaters, blankets and other things. I want Romano to divide up some of the canned foods for each room, in case it snows enough we can't cook for everyone during the winter. After that, you can go start on your garden or something."

Spain salutes and turns on his heel, whistling happily as he walks away, hands locked together behind his head. France and Germany watch him go in silence before France breaks it with a soft chuckle. "I do not think he understands how bad this is," he says softly, almost to himself, but Germany hears anyway.

"No," Germany replies, turning back to the warm flames, "Spain probably understands this better than any of us."

"Is that really what you believe, or are you just trying to contradict me?"

A weary smile dances on Germany's lips for a moment before it fades. "Spain is the only one out of all of us that isn't trying to deny or wish away what happened. He's just trying to adjust with it."

"Ah."

Silence again, and neither one of them makes any move to break it. Germany gets to his feet after a few moments to check out the soup, stirring it with the wooden spoon Feliciano had found a few weeks before. France sits and watches the smoke mix with the steam from the soup and climb higher into the pale blue sky.

It's so much quieter now than what it used to be, France thinks. Even with the low murmur of people as they wake, there is still something missing – birdsong, the hum of cars driving along highways, the chatter of millions of humans. Something is just _missing, _and the world is silent without it, whatever it is.

So when the call of "Hey!" comes, he can't help but jump, lunging forward into a squat, hands curled into fists. Germany is just as startled, and his hand jerks, spilling hot soup down the front of his shirt. He yells something in German and drops the spoon, rubbing at the stains.

Japan is standing before them, blushing pale pink as he bows, apologizes flowing off his tongue so fast that France can't hear a single word he is saying. Japan is as filthy as they are, his hair longer than France remembered it and brushing his shoulders by now. He is as pale and thin as the rest of them, but there is something very clear and determined in his voice as he speaks, finally slowing enough for France to understand what he is saying.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Japan says softly, eyes fixed on the ground. "China and I have just returned from searching the east. We found some survivors."

"Who?" Germany asks, calming down enough to return to stirring his soup.

Japan straightens up and digs his hand into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of worn paper. He squints at it, reading every name slowly. "We found India, Thailand and Nepal still alive, and India and Thailand returned here with us. We managed to get ahold of Australia and Indonesia, and Nepal chose to stay with them to tend to survivors there. We also found one of the Koreas."

"Which one?" France asks before he can stop himself. Japan's lips thin as his eyes narrow, something bright and heavy and so very angry burning in his dark irises.

"North Korea. South Korea is deceased. We buried him in the southern area of China."

There is another stretch of silence before Japan clears his throat and reads from the list once more. "We're assuming most of the other eastern Nations died. Australia has been trying to reach New Zealand, but so far he has been unsuccessful. The Philippines have also not responded."

France can't find anything to say, so he settles for staring at the ground. So few of them left, so many dead, and he can't stop the brief flash of fear – _what will happen to them now_?

Germany is talking with Japan again, both of them speaking with low voices as Germany ladles out a bowl of hot soup into a plastic bowl for Japan. The smaller Nation takes it, sipping it as he answers Germany's questions. France looks at them with unseeing eyes, seeing their mouths move but not hearing a word they say as his mind wanders and eyes cloud.

"France? Are you feeling ill?" Japan has abandoned his now-empty bowl of soup and sits besides him, one hand resting on his upper arm. "You look dazed."

France smiles and shakes his head, gently pushing the smaller Nation's hand off of him. "No, I'm alright. Just thinking."

Japan bites his lip for a moment before saying slowly, "France, China and I found something we both think you'd be very happy to see. Would you mind coming with me?" France just nods and gets to his feet, helping the smaller Nation up after him.

"You want food before you go?" Germany asks, holding out a half-full bowl of soup. France shakes his head, and Germany hands the bowl to the first of the mortal humans to reach the campfire, a nineteen-year-old girl who gulps down the soup like it's her last meal.

Japan is limping slightly as France follows him across the ruins, heading for China and what appears to be...

"You found horses?" France asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Japan twists his head just enough to shoot him a small smile.

"They were on a farm in Korea. China and I traded their owners some of our provisions for them."

The horses are skinny things, but strong and beautiful, and they smell richly of freshly turned dirt and something that is uniquely horsey and alive. India, a small, chubby girl in her late teens is patting one of them as China unhooks the travel bags from the horse's back.

France remembered India before the war started – a short, slightly overweight girl who never wore anything but her traditional _sari_ and a million bangles that clinked together every time she moved her hands, dark eyes full of a calmness that France could never match.

Now she looks drained and exhausted, and her _sari_ is gone, replaced with jeans and a too-big t-shirt. Her bangles are missing, and her dark brown eyes are angry, glaring and shining with fury.

China nods politely as France and Japan approach. He has traded his usual flowing clothing for a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, and they swim on him, making him look even more breakable. India ignores them both, bending down to root around in the bag China just handed her.

China gives France a once-over before returning his attention to Japan, hands still unhooking bags and saddles from their horses. "Japan, are you sure you want him to see now, aru? It might not be the best idea."

"I'm sure," Japan says firmly, not looking at France even as the blonde Nation stares at his face, trying to find some answers to the questions bubbling up inside of him. China raises his eyebrows and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head, and Japan ducks his head like a scolded child.

"Alright then, aru. Go ahead."

Japan bows and turns to France, motioning him forward and past the horses. A little farther on, he sees Thailand sitting with his back to them, talking with...

His heart stops for a second as his breath catches in his throat. "Mathieu?" He whispers, his pace slowing until he isn't moving at all, staring straight ahead. Canada and Thailand are sitting by a stack of bags, taking things out of them and placing them to the side as they argue with a tall dark man that France vaguely remembers as Brazil. "Is that really him?"

Japan chuckles softly into his hand before calling out, "Canada! Can you come here for a moment, please?" Canada's head jerks up, hands full of something, but France can't tell what it is as tears blur everything into a swirl of color. Canada's face breaks into a grin, and he stands quickly, dropping his load into Brazil's arms.

He runs straight into France's arms, arms wrapping around his neck as he buries his face in the older Nation's shoulder. France can't move, can't breathe, doesn't know what to feel – _except that everything is now right in the world_ – and it takes him a moment before he can wrap his arms around Canada's waist, burying his face in soft blonde hair.

He's muttering under his breath, he realizes after a moment, and another heartbeat later he realizes he is praying, thanking the Lord over and over. Canada doesn't say anything, just holds him tight for what seems like forever before slowly releasing him, keeping his hands on France's shoulders and looks directly into France's face.

That's when France notices that Canada has an black eyepatch covering his right eye.

His hands – _and voice_ – are shaking as he asks, "Mathieu, your eye...what...?" Canada cuts him off, stepping back just beyond France's reach as he replies.

"I lost it," he says, and his voice is infuriatingly cheerful. "It was ripped out. What was left was beyond repair, so one of my doctors stitched it shut." His hand creeps up his face, towards the patch, fingers brushing the soft fabric. He hesitates for a moment, then raises it, slowly, and France cannot stop the gasp that leaves his lips.

Underneath the patch is a mass of scar tissue, knotted and twisted, raised and a pale pink. Canada's face looks _so much_ unlike Canada, so much older and harder, and it twists France's stomach and he can't stop himself from taking a step back. Canada's lips thin out into a grim smile as he takes in France's expression, lowering his eyepatch slowly.

"That bad?" he asks as he drops his hand back to his side, and his voice is so defeated and dead. France shakes his head, trying – _but unable to_ – to step closer to the younger Nation.

"No, no. it's just..." he hesitates a second before continuing, "You just look so _different_." Canada smiles without humor, his only remaining eye as cold as ice, a touch of venom in his words as he speaks.

"You don't need to sugarcoat it, Francis."

France doesn't know what to say, and Canada turns away after a moment to head backs towards Thailand and Brazil. France turns to face Japan, a thousand questions flashing across his face all at once. Japan sighs and motions for France to follow him, leading him away from Canada and back towards China, never saying a word.

China takes one long look at France's face before sighing heavily, rubbing his temples with one hand. India watches silently, arms full of hay that she is feeing to the horses, as China gestures for Japan and France to sit down.

"That's why I thought you should wait, Japan, aru. You should have explained what happened first," China says, staring in the direction where Canada and the others are blankly. He falls silent for a moment, then turns his gaze to France. "Did he tell you how he lost it?"

"He just said it was ripped out," France says, leaning forward on his knees and biting his lip, unable to keep from remembering the clear _anger _and _venom_ in Canada's voice.

China smiles tiredly, shaking his head sadly. "He told us, aru." He gestures to Japan and himself. "We found him and Brazil up in Northern China – they said they'd found a boat and used that to cross over from Alaska. His eye was still bleeding; he'd had the sugary recently, and there was still a high risk of infection, aru. He told us the story in return for one of my herbal teas, aru." He pauses a second, then says, "It was a soldier who ripped it out. He didn't know who Canada was, and Canada can't remember who's soldier he was, aru."

He stops for a moment and licks his lips, shutting his eyes briefly. "He's very sensitive about it, aru. He can't see very well any more – he's partially blind in his other eye, aru. The doctor that preformed the surgery said his sight's going to continue to get worse." He purses his lips before saying softly, "He's going to be completely blind within ten years, aru."

_And the world breaks again._

France feels something cold and sharp pierce his heart and a sickening feeling settle in his stomach as he tries to understand what China had said.

Disabilities are something that holds everyone back now. The disabled can't help, can't work, can't prepare for whatever else is to come. It breaks France's heart to think, to _know_, that Canada will be blinded soon, and what will happen to him then? What will the others do with a useless Nation?

He takes a deep breath and tries to force himself to remain calm before asking through gritted teeth, "And what of America? Did he say?" He doesn't really care of what became of the older twin, but he _needs_ to think of something other than Canada's failing eyesight.

China shrugs, looking away. "Just that he couldn't find him, aru." He doesn't say anything more, his eyes unfocused and distant, so Japan joins in, keeping his voice low.

"He says that he knows his brother is alive – he looked around a few of the states, and there were enough people alive that it's safe to assume America didn't die. However, he just couldn't _find _him." He coughs, clearing his throat before he continues. "He thinks that America's just doing what he did during the Great Depression – helping his people as if he's one of them. He'll turn up sooner or later..." He trails off, but France still hears what the smaller Nation left unsaid.

_...At least, we hope he will._

France is shaking as he gets to his feet. "Thank you for telling me." His voice sounds funny, even to him. He pauses for a moment, wondering what else he can say, before he remembers, and digs inside his jacket to pull out the journal and hands it to Japan.

Japan gives the cover one puzzled look before turning his eyes to France. "If you don't mind me asking...what is this?" he asks politely, tilting his head to the side and staring up into France's face. China watches for a moment before rising to his feet to go help India with feeding the horses.

"Find Germany. He'll tell you what it's for," France says before turning on his heel and striding away through piles of rubble, heading anywhere so long as he can be alone for just a little bit, away from everyone else.

Funny how the world broke apart again just when he thought that maybe it would be alright.

_But that's just the way it goes._

----

**Author's Note**

**Ha, it's not a journal entry. But this would have been too hard to write about in a journal format, so I switched to third-person progressive for just this part.**

**Anyway, I don't know how I feel about this chapter. The story behind Canada and Brazil being with the Asians is that Canada met up with Brazil while he was searching around America for his brother, they went to Alaska to see if he was there, and found the boat that they used to sail to Russia.**

**Also, India and Brazil are OCs, and I don't think I'll write journal entries from their POV. Mainly 'cause I dislike OCs in fanfiction, but here's India's bio (I haven't written Brazil's yet):**

**Real Name: Kanta (brilliant/beloved)  
**

**Age: 17-19; she doesn't know how old she is.**

**Eyes: Brown**

**Hair: Black**

**Religion: Hindu**

**Personality: Before the war, she was fairly easy-going and a very even-tempered person who always had some wise saying to quote. She loved sweets and curries. After the war, she turned bitter and more defensive, and she doesn't talk as much as she once used to. She doesn't get along so well with England any more, and the war just worsened her realtionship with him.**

**Alright, I'm done. Please review if ya liked it, and if you reviewed for the last chapter, thank you so much!  
**


	7. Japan

_DATE:_

_Even after Ludwig's very detailed (and very long) explanation of what to do with this journal, I'm still at a loss for what to write in it, what I really want to say, because I think that if I start talking now, I'll never be able to stop._

_There's many things I want to say, and people I wish I could have said them to, but some of those people are gone now, and can't hear my words even if I scream them at the heavens over and over again. They can't understand why I did what I did, they can never hear my apologies for everything I've ever done to them._

_Min, for example. I've said cruel things to her, and hurt her in ways no one should ever be hurt. I, as both a country and a human, broke her in ways she didn't deserve. I never treated her like I should have, but it's too late for me to change that now, because she's dead._

_Yao found her in Korea somewhere – I never even knew that she and the Koreas were friends, or maybe she was just looking for help from them. We buried her alongside Im Yong Su and Ji and a thousand other nameless humans we found, and marked her grave with the flower she used to wear in her hair._

_Im Yong Su is another person I want to apologize to but never can now. His brother is still there, but I never shot him down as badly as a person as I did Im Yong. I damaged their country, but I never hurt North Korea like I hurt Im Yong. But he can't hear me now, so all my apologies must stay inside of me for the rest of eternity._

_And now I'm left with all the guilt I feel, and I'm trying to repair things with the people I do have left, because that's all I have now. My nation is in ruins, my people starve, and there is a constant ache in my heart and in my bones that makes me wonder about how much longer I will live._

_But that kind of thinking is suicidal now. My thoughts must be focused on survival and survival alone, and I shouldn't be questioning things like that if I die right now, would I see Min and Ji and Im Yong on the other side? Would I finally be able to say what I wish I could to them? Would I finally be at-_

_No, even if I died, I wouldn't be at peace. Leaving the world behind like this would make sure I would never rest peacefully. There's too much chaos, too much sadness, and I am sure that on the other side there are too many lost souls that adding yet another in to the mess would just complicate things._

_Besides, no one knows what happens to a Nation after they die, or even to a mortal human. There is no way of knowing that even if I died, I would be able to see Min and Ji and Im Yong Su. It's dangerous to think of dying, especially now, and if anyone ever reads this, it will seem very much like I have given up._

_But I haven't given up just yet, because I still haven't righted all the wrongs I have committed. Yao has forgiven me, yes, and I am grateful to him for that. But I still must apologize to America, and I still must ask for forgiveness from Ludwig and Feliciano._

_Guilt is something that will not leave me, especially since Min, Ji and Im Yong's deaths, and apologizing for all the hurt I have caused will make me feel even just the slightest bit better._

_I was not sure what I should say in this for the longest time. Yao, Kanta, Matthew, Joao, Niran and I arrived back here at least a week ago, if not more, but there were things to do – winter is coming quickly, and we have to prepare for that. Matthew has been trying to learn the layout of the camp for his eyesight gets worse every day, Joao has been catching Germany up on the status of the rest of the Nations in South America._

_Yao has been trying to get Kanta to help England with the building of tunnels to connect the underground rooms, but she has been refusing stubbornly, preferring to take care of the horses. Niran and I have been helping Spain and Romano to build an underground garden, and there is so little time for personal pursuits._

_Not that it matters much; there isn't that much to do if you're not busy working. Some of the humans got their hands on the guitars France and Ludwig found, and play them in the evenings, some tell stories, some sit and talk about life before the war as they warm their hands on the bonfires we build every evening._

_It's a routine; wake up, eat a quick breakfast, work until you can't move, relax, eat dinner, fall asleep wherever there's room to lie down. The underground rooms are starting to truly look like homes, and it was by Matthew's suggestion that we are building tunnels connecting each room for use during the colder months._

_It's not much – we don't have enough blankets, nor nearly enough lights, but it's something, and it makes something strung tight in my chest relax because those rooms are proof that maybe one day, we can rebuild everything we once had._

_Or maybe not everything we had; there are several things in the past that I would prefer to leave behind for good, but there is many things I do miss._

_It's early evening now, and I'm in one of the three rooms set aside for the Nations. Ludwig and Feliciano have already dug a tunnel connecting this room to another, and France and England are digging another tunnel to connect to the third room. Yao found some candles somewhere, which are what I'm writing by now, and there's a stack of blankets in the corner that Ludwig uncovered somewhere. There's a pile of books by the tunnel leading to the other room, a guitar in its case leaning against the wall next to it, and while it's nothing as grand as what I used to have...it's cozy, comfortable in its own way._

_The others are outside, preparing dinner – Romano found a Wal-Mart today with all the canned food still in the ruins and intact, so tonight's dinner will be a celebration for that. We have enough food for months on end now, and there were bags on concrete mix in the rubble as well; houses can be built this winter. There were toys and clothing – ripped, yes, but still better then what we have now, so England is setting aside a group of people to mend them, and there is happy chatter and cheers, and Romano wouldn't stop blushing earlier because everyone was so proud of him and his discovery._

_There is something different about the camp now, something that changed in the month that Yao and I were in the east. Something more relaxed, something more hopeful. The grief that has been staining the air since the end of the war five months ago is still there, but it is overpowered by something stronger and more positive._

_It makes me almost want to cry at the best of times, but tonight it was overpowering, so I had to excuse myself and dash down here so no one could see the tears threatening to spill down my face. Guilt and relief, regret and hope - they are battling for attention inside of me, but there are so many wonderful feelings outside to convince me to put aside the negative feelings even just for a little while. It's the aura that everyone has now, the air of hope and the knowledge that we just might make it through this rough time, and the discovery of food and more things we need has just made it clearer, stronger, more real._

_And for the first time since the war ended, I can believe them. I can believe that we're going to be alright, and the relief being able to believe that is enough to break down the dams and force tears from my eyes even as I wish that Min, Ji and Im Yong were here for this as well._

_Yao just came down, and is asking me why I'm crying as he wipes tears from my eyes, so I must hurry and finish._

_Please, to whoever finds this, if you want someone's forgiveness for something you've done, apologize to them while you have the chance. They'll probably forgive you if you ask for it and tell the truth._

_And remember that you are only here for a short time if you're a human, and we Nations watch you grow and die, and we cry for every one of you. Live your life and do not die until you've done something so great that we Nations can't keep pride from our voices when we speak of you, even years later after your death._

_Yao, Min, Ji, Im Yong...I am sorry for everything. I'm so grateful for the fact that Yao is still here with me and that he has forgiven me, and Min, Ji, Im Yong, I wish you were here as well. But all I can do now is pray you'll rest peacefully and that someday Yao and I will be able to give you a proper funeral. But I love you all, and always will. I hope I will see you one day, but for now, being here on earth is good enough for me._

_- Japan_

_----_

**Author's Note:**

**Niran = Tibet, Min = Taiwan, Ji = Hong Kong, Joao = Brazil, Kanta = India - I googled some of the more popular names for each country and ended up with those.  
**

**This was going to go so differently...but I wrote half of it, watched PONYO (which was a fantastic movie, by the way) lost my train of thought for the ending, and ended up making it sappier then what I wanted to do. Action'll pick up again in China's entry.**

**If you reviewed last chapter, thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy this! (I'm trying to respond to each review, but my computer is being screwed up, TT^TT It has issues with )  
**


	8. China

_DATE:_

_There is such a thing as living too long._

_I suppose I'm the oldest of the Nations, but honestly I can't remember how many years have passed me by. Four thousand is the best guess, but from there on, I am lost. I could have lived four thousand, nine hundred and six years, or four thousand and eleven, but I don't believe it really matters._

_I've seen people be born and die, governments rise and fall, sat through revolutions and protests, looked over days of anger and days of love, watched over times of peace and times of brutality._

_I suppose that this time now can classify as a time of peace, but maybe that is simply because there is no one left to fight a war. Kiku and I counted all the survivors in our camp today – just over two hundred, not including the Nations. Of Nations, around twenty have survived so far by our count, maybe twenty five, so there are about two hundred and twenty mouths to feed at the end of the day._

_Of those two hundred mortal humans, about sixty five of them are children under the age of thirteen. Another eighty are between ages fourteen and twenty. There are just over fifty adults left as well. There were originally thousands in this area before the war – we are by the ruins of London now, and now two hundred people are all that remain._

_There are about five hundred people left in the east, about eight hundred in North America, four hundred and fifty in South America, and Greece counted at least six hundred in Africa, but that is out of billions of humans, and now less than ten thousand people remain._

_Children do not work – Matthew and a mortal woman by the name of Alice Baker have been trying to set up one of the underground rooms into a sort of playroom. Germany assists by connecting two more rooms to the main room by tunnels, and Italy stocks the rooms full of toys and children's books. The children spend most of the day down there and are only reunited with their caretakers when night falls._

_Teenagers and adults must work, though. We've given up on building houses for now and focus on the underground rooms, but there are still bodies to be buried and food to be found, and days pass in such a similar matter that I can't even tell that time is moving at all._

_It took me about a week and a half to find enough time to begin writing in this little book. It might have been a week, I'm not sure – days seem to blur into one another so we can't even remember the month by now. Not much has happened this last week, except for the fact that Greece returned from exploring Africa with only three Nations by his side and the news that four more more had survived and chosen to stay behind._

_Madagascar, South Africa and Ethiopia returned with Greece, while Congo, Libya, Egypt and Kenya stayed, and we Nations mentally try and count how many Nations have survived now that we have seven more to add to the list. About thirty, we think, but only twenty are here._

_It is still something, however. Greece said that the seven African Nations that survived took the land that the dead Nations have left behind. I own at least a third of Russia now, Germany has taken Poland's land and Finland's, and some of Russia's, and Joao told us he owned most of South America – only six Nations survived there besides Joao._

_Not that this is formally recognized yet. Nor can it be formally recognized – most of our bosses died during the final months of the war, there are no meetings, no signing of important documents. We took the land because no one lives there now – no one is left to sign the land over to us. It's just word of mouth and generally assumed and accepted._

_Maybe someday it will be official, but for right now I'd prefer a fresh loaf of bread and a warm blanket than a document stating something that I don't want to be reminded of._

_If the lands are signed over to us - to me, Germany and Joao - it will make their deaths official. The people to who the land used to belong to are beyond my reach, but it somehow feels wrong to be control of their property. People lived there, laughed and cried and died there, and now those lands are almost empty, marred only by a stack of rubble here and the ruins of a house there, and laughter is gone, replaced by too many tears._

_I feel sick._

_My teas aren't helping with whatever it is that is making my stomach churn and my head spin, and I know it's foolish to even hope they will. Grief is too deeply wound around my heart for it to let go of me now, and no amount of warm, spiced water will help with that now._

_Anyway, winter is coming, and fast. Frost covered the ruins this morning, and no one really wanted to be outside, so we all spent much of today digging tunnels and organizing the canned food in what we decided was to be the common room._

_Spain and Romano have been working on their garden with a sixteen-year-old boy named Tay and a twenty-year-old girl called Nisa, and it's flourishing. Spain boasts that he'll have fresh vegetables ready for us within six months, maybe even less if he can get his hands on some fertilizer._

_No one has seen much of France since Kiku, the others and myself returned from the east, and that's understandable, I suppose. Matthew's condition was a bit of a shock, even to myself – and I know that his doctor was being optimistic, Matthew's vision is going much faster than it should. He can't see shapes very well now – just blurs and swirls of color painted on the bleak canvas of the world, no meaning or sense to them._

_'In some ways, I envy him, because he isn't seeing everything that goes on right in front of our eyes that makes me wish for the past so much my heart aches._

_He doesn't have to see all the death; he just sees a mess of colors and tries to guess at what is really in front of him, all the time never knowing the true horrors of this world. And he is lucky for that. Because when the lights come on and the curtains falls down, and the world shows its true colors, you wish that you could forget everything you've seen and go back to being pampered and ignorant._

_Humans are such fools, but I'm no better, because I keep praying it will get better._

_But it won't. Life isn't that kind to us – she must make everything as difficult as possible, it seems. If she was a gentle mistress, Min and Ji and Im Yong would still be alive._

_But they're not alive. They died and were buried and are also beyond my reach, and it makes me feel sick to remember that now, I hold Min and Ji's land along with Russia's, and that is beyond feeling wrong. It makes me feel like their blood is on my hands, like I was the one who cut off Min's head and ripped out Ji's heart._

_Their blood had dried by the time we found them, but I think that might have made it worse, because there was so much of it, dried and crusty and covering everything around them, and I imagined what the scene had looked like when the blood was still fresh, still crimson and dripping under the sunlight and flowing in rivers over the pavement they were lying on._

_I fainted then. The image was more than what I could handle. My people died, my lands burned, but Min and Ji's death made me remember that this isn't some morbid play or video game. This is life now, and those who died are never coming back._

_I'm grateful that I was left alone now, because that means no one can see the tears burning in my eyes. It means that no one is here to see my moment of weakness. It was bad enough that I fainted in front of Kiku, I do not need any more people to see what the once-great Nation of China has been reduced to._

_A sniveling old man curled over a tiny, broken diary that contains more anger and sadness than any diary ever has before, hands shaking as he tries to pen out words to say what he really feels. I know I do not look old – Nations do not age easily - but right now, sitting here, I feel ancient. My thoughts are wandering and nothing I write down makes sense – I jump from topic to topic like a grasshopper in summer and say what comes to the front of my mind._

_I must stop before I ramble on and on and never end up stopping. The dam has broken now and it's all I can do to try and hold back the flow._

_My blessing is that even if you have seen about four thousand years past by like I have, you learn either everything or nothing. My four thousand years are a drop in the bucket compared to how long the world has been around, and I have little to show for it. At the end of the day, I'm nothing more than a fool and a daydreamer, and I wish I had paid better attention._

_My warning is that you're already falling and you just don't know it. Sooner or later you'll hit the ground, and it's all you can do to try and slow yourself down and control the damage, but nothing is ever that easy._

_Min, I wish that you were here. You were growing into such a beautiful lady, and your country doing so well...life was never fair to you, was she? And now you're gone, and something is missing from my heart, a hole that can never be filled._

_Ji, I still remember you as the little boy who shoved firecrackers under my guests' chairs, and it's hard to pair that image of your bright and shining eyes with the way they were the last time I saw you: empty and dead with no fire left, and no spark there_

_Im Yong Su, you know that I never truly meant what I said to you. Yes, you were annoying, and having you around sometimes wore on my last nerve, but you were my friend, someone to count on, someone who at least tried to stay with me rather then spend eternity running away, like everyone else did._

_Kiku...there is too much I have to say, and no words for it. Anger and hatred, love and compassion – I can't figure out what I feel towards you, after years of fighting and hating one another, and now this. You helped me through this apocalypse, I suppose, but there is still too much tension between us for me to rest easily around you. Maybe one day we'll sit down and talk, but for right now, there is still to much to do, and I can hide behind a list of chores to avoid seeing you._

_I'll still my heart now, before words I don't need to say yet pour out._

_- China_

----

**Author's Note**

**Sorry that this took so long to update - I just started high school (I'm a freshman) at a college prep school that really demands a lot, so I come home so exhausted every evening that writing is the last thing on my mind. **

**Canada's entry will be next, thank you for reading and hoped you liked it!  
**


	9. Canada

_DATE:_

_You, whoever picked up this journal, do me a favor._

_Tilt your head back, twist it to the side, look at everything around you. Take in every detail of it – if you're outside, look at the grass, if there is any, and the sky. Look at the people passing you by and really** look** at them. If you're inside because you live far enough in the future that people are actually building houses again, take in the texture of the walls. Look at whatever is under your feet. Look at the furniture, paintings on the walls, books on the shelves._

_Notice their colors, their textures, their sizes. Pay attention to where a shadow is falling and how thick and dark it is. Look at how much light streams around you and things and how it falls to the ground._

_Now blink, and then open your eyes wide again. Are all the colors, sizes, shapes, textures, shadows still there? Can you still see them? Does the world still have a form and a shape? Are the colors still as vibrant as they were before?_

_You have no idea how jealous of you I am._

_Living blind, even half blind or three quarters blind or however blind I am, is torture. There's a fog in the corner of my only eye now that grows every day, and colors are muted, textures and shapes blurred together like a child's painting._

_I hate it._

_I hate not being able to see, I hate tripping over things that everyone else jumps over because I can't see it and they can't remember to warn me about something in my way. I hate sitting in the camp because I can't be allowed to work with the others on the uncovering of bodies and buildings just because I can't see what my hands are doing now and can get hurt because of my incompetence. I hate having to just sit and be classified into the same group as the youngest children and the oldest elders – a necessary, sometimes useful burden, another mouth to feed._

_I never hated anything this fiercely before the war. But I guess that's what losing your eye, having your brother go missing and have your people die in the streets right before you can do to you. I never knew hatred and anger until the war ended, and I never knew grief until everyone I knew, who lived in my country, was dead, and I never knew pain until my eye was lying on the ground, glistening red with blood._

_Since this journal is a place to say whatever the hell you want to without anyone seeing it, I guess I'll write down the truth here, where, hopefully, it'll be safe from the prying eyes of the other for now and forever._

_There was no soldier. No one else tore out my eye._

_I ripped my own eye out._

_I didn't want to keep seeing everything that was going on right in front of me, and somehow that wish ended up with a shock of pain ripping through my skull and my eye staring up at me from first my hand, and then the floor after I threw it across the room, away from me._

_It was stupid, moronic, and an idea that very nearly cost me my life. So many of my people were dead or dying by then, and the pain I felt from that, combined with the shock of my eye being ripped out...it almost made my heart stop. It's a miracle that I lived, and even now I have no idea who picked me up off my living room floor and brought me to a local doctor._

_I don't know what I'm doing now. I don't have that many people left alive – around six hundred is my best guess, and some of them are sick, some are suffering from wounds, and others are on their deathbeds. I don't think many of them will survive the year, and that makes a pang of fear pound in my veins and makes more tears well up in my useless eye – the other one can't cry anymore._

_If all my people die, what will happen to me? Where will I go?_

_It's something I've been forced to wonder about these last few months. I am blind, and therefore useless. My people are dying slowly and I wonder what will happen when the last of them closes their eyes and never opens them again. Will I be like Prussia, connected to no country, no land, no people but still here, or will I go to wherever dead Nations go to?_

_And what is even worse is that I don't know which one I hope will happen to me – if I stay here, or if I just die. Live a life of darkness and whispers behind my back when they think I'm not listening, or venture down a path with no ideas about what it holds for me at its end._

_I still have enough my sight to be able to write out this journal entry, but I wonder how much longer that will last. Words are already faded and blurred, even though it's the middle of the day, the sun at its highest point._

_But to me, with my horrible eyesight, it's more like early evening, when your sight just begins to lose all color and you're stuck guessing what shapes really are as they warp into new things under the cover of nightfall._

_My sanity must be going along with my vision. I never rambled like this before in my life, and now I find that I can't stop. There's just far too much to say, things I'll tell the paper. The paper won't tell anyone else what I'm keeping a secret from them._

_They'll never know the truth about what really happened to my eye. I think it makes me weak, what I did to myself. Ripping it out like I did. But it's shameful, as well as a sign of weakness, and I guess it's self-harm – how could it **not** be? - and I imposed my own uselessness upon myself by that one action. It's too late to try and fix it now, though. I'm stuck with my mistake, now and forever._

_Or at least until I die._

_Apparently I went morbid along with blind and insane. I never talked like this before the war, or at least not that I remember. For the last few months, dreams have been plaguing me – dreams where my brother dies, crushed underneath the ruins of his house, or Francis is cut in half by a falling lightpost, or any other of the Nations dying in horribly bloody ways – they're all I have left now, from the way things used to be, and the idea of losing them terrifies me beyond all reason. I never had dreams like this before, and I wake up with a silent scream on my lips every night, praying for someone to come comfort me and tell me that they're never going to leave._

_But I have no idea where Alfred is, none of the other Nations will wake up, and Francis hasn't said a word to me the day that Kiku, Yao and I returned to this camp. He won't even look at me. I think I scared him, with my hideous, ruined face and my cold, harsh words, but he won't come close enough for me to apologize._

_I've said enough for now. My head aches and my temples are throbbing, which isn't helping with my vision any. Right now, I guess I'll see if anyone has a task for a useless Nation, or maybe I'll just sit here and enjoy the last of the warm sunlight._

_You, person reading this, please remember that there is nothing as precious as the people you love. They'll vanish someday, or they'll be right in front of you but so far away, so take a minute to just hug them close and breathe in their smell. Commit it to memory, along with every endearing trait they have, and everything they do that irritates you. Those memories are a comfort one day._

_Francis, I'm sorry. I'm ruined now, and broken, and lying to you every time I send you a cold look. There's nothing I want more then for you to talk to me again, hug me again – do anything except stare at what's left of my face and turn away when I look at you. I miss you so much, because even though you're right by me, you're a thousand miles away and you're never going to listen when I try and tell you what I wish I could._

_Alfred...Damn you. Come home already. Please._

_- Canada_

_--- _

**Author's Note**

**Canada's entry is probably the worst one so far. Seriously.**

**Yes, he ripped out his own eye. Dramatic, eh?**

**Anyway, next chapter will probably be another one with all of them, not a journal entry. And something dramatic is going to happen~! Someone might die, depending on how I feel when I start in on it, but I'm not sayin' who's going to die just yet. Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!  
**


	10. All II

"Look, all I'm saying is that we really should consider leaving all this behind and heading south, Germany." Greece's voice is frustrated and tired as he speaks, his hair greasy and dangling in his face as he bends over to heave up a huge rock. "I'm not saying we abandon the dead; they're going to rot away no matter what. But the children aren't going to be able to handle the winter with a low food supply and a bad climate with no warm clothing, so we should rea-"

"Are you even listening to what you're saying?" Germany interrupts, throwing some torn blankets into the pile of salvageable things. "You just said that the dead are just going to rot, so we should just leave them. When you die, I'm just going to leave your corpse out and open to the elements."

"That's not what I meant, Nazi!" _When did anger ever appear in Greece's voice? He can't think of a time before this. _"I'm saying we need to focus on keeping people alive for now before we focus on dealing with everyone who died." Greece takes a deep breathe and stands up, hands on his hips, face flushed. His lips are set into a fierce scowl, and it looks almost funny on his face. "I don't want to be here when the snow comes," he says flatly. "It'll suck, and we'll all die. Please, Germany, we need to actually think about this-"

Germany _looks_ at him, and Greece falls silent, a moody expression on his face. It's awkward for a moment – they're both standing, covered in soot and dirt, and glaring at each other, but neither can think of a way to break it.

"We should go back to camp," Germany mutters finally, grabbing the bag they had been stuffing useful things into all afternoon into. It's heavy, and bulging, and the seams are starting to rip at the edges, but it gets the job done and that is something for which they are thankful.

Greece is sulking, and refuses to speak to Germany all the way back to camp, spending the half-hour needed to reach their home in a stony silence, eyes adverted. Tension is so thick in the air that Germany can taste it.

_When did it get like this? _Germany wonders as he hands the bag of things off to Alice Baker and turns to answer England's questions of what did they find, _who_ did they find, what can be saved, and are we all going to die and you're just lying about it. A repeat of questions that he hears every day in different words, from different people and said in different voices, but all with the same meaning and the same unspoken fear.

_When did we all become this afraid? _He can't think of an answer for that question, and dinner has to be cooked – night is falling, and with it, the chill that plagues them every evening and forces them into as many blankets as they are allowed.

Greece still won't look at him, and ends up walking off with Madagascar – a small, tiny and delicate girl, with large brown eyes and chocolate skin, a child who isn't a child by now. They leave the group behind to go sit with one of the mortal children, a little blonde girl named Jenny Anderson who lost her whole family when a bomb was dropped on her house seven months before.

It's not like Greece has any chores for the evening – Spain, Romano, Italy and Germany himself are on the cooking duty for another week and a half, but even those with no assigned chores help with the cleaning, the sorting of clothes, the starting of the evening bonfire and the storytelling that goes on every night. Germany is a little annoyed about the fact that Greece is so angry with him that he refuses to help, but at the same time, it's good that he and Madagascar will talk to Jenny – Germany knows what it feels like to have no one left.

He starts the fire with some help from France – _where are Spain and Romano? _- and pulls the community pot over to rest it on the coals once the flames die down. A group of at least fifty people are gathered around him now, watching him with bright eyes, the fire reflecting off their irises. The fire's reflection is more alive then they are.

He doesn't bother speaking to them – he doesn't have anything new to say. And they wouldn't listen.

The soup is boiling by the time China appears to help with dishing it out to the starving people. His hair has been cut, messily, and most likely done with a dull knife. It sticks up in tuffs around his drawn face and hollowed cheeks. His sweatshirt has a rip in it, and through it, Germany can see the sharp outlines of China's ribs. China has fallen so far, and it hurts like a punch to the gut - even though before this, he and China were on opposite sides of the war, and fought to kill the other every day.

"I can't find Spain or Romano," China mumbles as he sits on the rock to the left of Germany, wrapping his arms around his bony torso. "No one's seen them since earlier this afternoon, aru. I'm starting to worry about them."

Germany bites his lip, and fills up a bowl of soup, passing it to one of the many people in front of him. "I haven't seen them either. Have you checked their garden?"

"Of course, aru." China huffs and blows his bangs out of his face, doubling up so his chin rests on his knees. "They weren't there. Japan went to check on the other underground rooms, but I don't know how likely it is that he'll find them, aru."

"Huh. That's a little weird," Germany mutters, passing another bowl out soup out. The fire cracks as some soup spills over the edge of the pot. "Has Turkey arrived back yet? He was suppose to be back last week."

"I don't know, aru."

It's almost like the words have willed it to happen, because a moment later, they hear a call of "Hey, bastards! Did'ja leave any food for me?" and Turkey's scrambling over the piles of ruined debris, and people are getting to their feet and Nations are running to him and even Greece looks up, almost excited to see him.

After almost three months of hard travel, Turkey is leaner then ever, more of a skelton then a man. His hair is long and shaggy, so greasy that the chestnut brown has turned black. There's a long scar running from just under his left eye to his throat, disappearing into the collar of his ratty shirt and jacket, colored pastel pink and it looks raw.

"Turkey." Germany doesn't get up. Instead, he fills another bowl full of canned soup and passes it to the man as Turkey makes his way over to him. "Did you find anyone? Where are they? Did you bring them back with you?"

Turkey sends him a flat stare over the rim of the bowl as he lifts it to his lips. Most everyone there is watching now, a flood of whispers accompanying every move the two Nations make. China, still by Germany's side, opens his mouth to ask something, but the words die on his tongue and he falls silent, looking away.

Finally, Turkey lets the bowl fall away from his face and lets out a loud burp. Some of the children giggle. Germany wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I found some others. They're lookin' at the burial field right now; said they'd be here in a minute."

"How many and who, aru?" China's voice is soft and gentle as he looks up into Turkey's dark eyes, his own eyes full of hope. Turkey sighs loudly and sits down heavily – people move back to make room for him, all eyes fixed on his burly frame. The whispers are gone now, and the air feels different without them.

"Let's see...Lithuania, found 'em up by Russia. Sweden was with 'em. So were Denmark and Norway, and someone else I know you and Prussia'll be happy to see. They're all fine, except for some brusing and a few cuts. I think between them there's...oh, I dunno. Nine thousand people?"

Germany gasps, China inhales sharply, Italy, standing to the back of the crowd, whistles softly, Greece gets to his feet suddenly, face pale, and Madagascar looks so incredibly hopeful that it's painful to look at her. The crowd is muttering again, thinking of family they had up there, and the sudden hopes that maybe, just maybe, someone they knew and loved was still alive.

"You're joking," Germany says weakly. His voice is shaking. Turkey flashes them all a wide grin, looking so incredibly pleased with himself.

"Nah. Why would I joke about that?" he asks seriously, leaning back against the pile of rubble behind him and lacing his fingers together behind his head. "Where are the other Nations?" The crowd of people sigh and return back to their business as the Nations talk.

"Prussia's off somewhere..." Germany gestures around vaguely, "...He hasn't been quite all there since Hungary died. We haven't seen much of France since China and Japan got back with Canada and a few others, but-"

"You found _Canada?_" Turkey asks, leaning forward, eyes wide. He looks so disbelieving. "What about America? Who else did you find? What's happened while I was gone?"

China holds up one hand, and both Germany and Turkey fall silent. Greece has made his way over to them by now, and sits down next to Turkey, not quite touching him. "Canada and Brazil made their way over here from North America, aru," China says in his quiet, serious voice. "However, there were some...complications. Canada's eye was ripped out and he's going blind, aru. Japan and I found India on our way to Asia, and she returned with us, as did Thailand. One of the Koreas died, and the other stayed in Asia to help there, aru. America is alive as far as we know, but we don't know where he is, aru. That's not that important. Please continue and tell us what happened during the time you were exploring, aru."

Turkey sighs again and leans his head back. Greece sends him a troubled look but says nothing as Turkey begins to talk. "I didn't tell Sweden or Lithuania what had happened to Finland or Poland. They still think they're alright and here, and I haven't had the heart to break it to 'em."

Silence. China looks worried, Germany a little annoyed, Greece concerned. "That's not good, aru," China says at last. "I don't think the news will make anything any easier for them. I don't be the one to tell them, aru."

There's a loud crack behind them, and they all jump. A child screams – everyone is so tense – and someone hushes him as Lithuania, Sweden, Norway, Denmark and Austria scramble into view. They're all sweaty and look exhausted, and their hair is so greasy and clinging to their necks, and they're so skinny and their eyes are so different, but they all have the smallest of smiles on their faces as they fling themselves on the nearest Nation.

Germany ends up with an armful of Norway, and China is almost crushed as Denmark and Sweden both try and hug him at the same time, and Greece looks almost amused as Lithuania latches himself onto his neck, and Italy's attacked by a sobbing Austria, and they're trying to keep from laughing as they cling to their finally-found friends. The camp breaks out in noise as survivors swarm over to see what all the fuss is about, and Prussia, finally making an appearance, almost faints when Austria grabs him and holds him close.

Even France and Canada come join, England on their heels, and Japan right next to him, and they're pulled into bone-crushing hugs and tears are sobbed into the crooks of their shoulders, and there's actual laughter and smiles.

When they finally calm down, the Nations collapse into a circle around the bonfire, every one of them still clinging to another. It's a tangle of arms and legs, and it's so terribly undignified, but no one comments on it as they just sit there and grin like maniacs at each other.

The silence is broken when Lithuania asks, "Where is Poland?"

The smiles melt away almost instantly, and laughter fades away as the Nations stare down at the dirt and rubble under them. The fire plays on their face, casting demonic shadows as Lithuania glances from face to face, his expression becoming increasingly worried with every passing second.

"...He's dead, isn't he." Lithuania's voice is flat, not cold nor angry. He's just stating the facts, and everyone winces at the tone he uses. Lithuania is painfully thin after months of little food, his cheeks hollow and his hair longer then ever and straggly, but he's never looked so dead until now. His eyes have no life into them, and they're not green anymore. They're just a endless black.

"I'm assuming the same f'r Finland," Sweden says softly after a long moment, and there's another uncomfortable silence filled with things they all want to say but just don't have the words for. Sweden's glasses still cling to his thin face, lens cracked, and his hair was cut recently, so it's uneven and choppy. He looks like a ghost as he bites his lip and looks away from the dancing flames. The fire casts shadows under his eyes, making it look like he hasn't slept in months.

"I'm so sorry, aru," China whispers at last, looking like he's about to start crying. Japan, clearly uncomfortable, loops his arm around the older Nation's shoulders and pulls him close. China rests his forehead against Japan's shoulder, and everyone can see his eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

"You couldn't have done anything," Japan says so softly that only China hears it, and China nods his head, just slightly. He doesn't say anything – he doesn't trust his voice. He doesn't even know why he is blaming himself; Poland and Finland were at least three months dead by the time they had been found, and he and Japan had been in Asia.

Germany, still staring into the heart of the fire, wonders how the mood can go from joyful to depressed in such a short time. Italy, his head resting against Germany's arm, wonders why everyone needs to cry all the time.

There is quiet, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the whispers of the humans as they head to their underground rooms for the night. The clouds are moving away from the moon overhead, and they are all bathed in harsh, silvery light, so different from the warm light of the fire. Lithuania's face is streaming with tears, even though he isn't sobbing and he doesn't seem to notice that he's crying. Everyone knows what he's lost, and they all wonder why he isn't screaming with grief by now. They would be, in his position. Sweden looks withdrawn and thoughtful, sad and unreachable, and now there is no Finland to draw him away from his thoughts with a gentle laugh and a soft smile. They, Sweden and Lithuania, the two broken ones, make a heartbreaking picture.

"Where is my brother?" Italy mumbles after a while. No one knows, and it sparks another flicker of worry deep inside of them. Japan mutters something about gardens, France chips in with something about gathering more food, but no one has any idea. Italy begins to get to his feet, his face a mask of fear and concern, but Germany gently grabs his wrist and forces him to sit once more.

"They will come back soon," he says softly, and Italy bites his lip, not looking Germany in the eye as he nods. The fire crackles, and a spray of sparks fly up. All eyes watch the bright orange stars shoot up, and then fade away, blown to god knows where by the chilly breeze.

"I'm going downstairs," Greece says at last, getting to his feet. "Turkey, Denmark, Norway, Lithuania, Sweden, Austria, would you like to come join me? I imagine you're tired, and-"

"I'll stay here," Austria replies softly. He's tucked between Germany on one side and Prussia on the other. Prussia looks like he can't believe what's happened, and the look of pure happiness on his face is startling after months of nothing but dead-eyed stares from exhausted red eyes. Austria is pale, and clearly starving, and his glasses are gone, but there is something at peace about his expression as he tips his head back to stare at the stars overhead.

Norway, Denmark, Lithuania, Turkey and Sweden follow him down to their rooms without anyone saying anything more, and silence falls again. China is on the verge of falling asleep, and Italy's just dozed off, when Romano dashes up to them, slipping and sliding on tiles and broken bricks, his eyes wild and his expression one of pure panic.

"What is wrong, _mon ami_?" France asks, getting to his feet. Romano clings to his shoulder, and gasps at the cold evening air. Italy gets to his feet and places his hand on his brother's back, eyes wide and scared. Germany stands as well, and slowly everyone there gets to their feet, crowding in around South Italy, concern clear in their faces.

"You've got to help me," Romano forces out, looking France in the eye. He's crying, and his brown eyes sparkle with tears. He has to stop and catch his breath before continuing, hsi voice rough and fearful. "Spain just collapsed after throwing up blood, and I can't get him to wake up."

----

**Author's Note:**

**Um. Wow. That went a little bit differently in my ead, but I guess this works. I might have to write another non-journal entry for next chapter. Anyway, Lithuania and Austria survived - you're going to get more on Sweden's and Lithuania's grief next chapter; it wasn't very well expressed here. Sorry about that. They're in shock.  
**


	11. All III

Romano is sobbing again, and no amount of comforting will be enough to calm him down. His brother has wrapped his arms around him, pulling him in close, China has a gentle hand resting on his bony shoulder, Greece is slowly patting Romano's greasy hair, but none of it has any effect.

Romano cries and cries, and his tears are without end.

It's because of Spain. Spain is sick, so very sick. China suspects radiation poisoning, Japan checks out all the symptoms, and they cannot deny what they see. High fever, his wounds from gardening and hauling heavy materials healing slowly, and the vomiting of blood.

Germany thinks Spain has been suffering from the effects for several months, and just now they got sever enough for them to notice. His case could be mild, could be servere, but Spain will never be the same again.

They don't tell Romano of that yet.

There is no need just yet to break his already shattered soul down further.

"Alright, lift him slowly," Germany orders. They are close to the edge of town – Spain and Romano had been searching for more useful things at the less ruined end of the city when Spain collapsed. They brought a stretcher they had fashioned from torn cloth and broken wood, and now Turkey and Sweden, recruited just for this task as tired as they are, carefully hoist Spain up and gently place him back down on the stretcher.

Germany, Sweden, Turkey and Greece head back to camp. Italy follows them after a moment, glancing over his shoulder at his still-weeping brother. China continues to sit there, rubbing Romano's back in tiny circles.

"He's going to die," Romano says. The wind has picked up, and it almost blows away his soft voice. "Spain is going to die, isn't he." China feels something in his chest tighten painfully at Romano's words and his so very broken expression.

_I can't lose anyone else. _

"He wouldn't, aru. He'll be fine! You'll see, aru – in a week he'll be looking for his tomatoes again and laughing with France, aru. This sickness...is just temporary, aru. You'll see." China does not know who he is trying to convince – himself or Romano.

Romano snorts. His nose is running, and even in the dim moonlight China can see the trickle of tears running down his bony cheeks. They are both freezing, but neither wishes to head back to the camp that is now surely in a tizzy over Spain.

"He will not die, aru." China's voice is weak, fading. "We are the Nations. We are eternal, aru."

Another snort. "Try telling that to Hungary and Russia and Taiwan and Hong Kong, China. They weren't eternal. They died like the thousands of humans who died."

China smiles, sadly. It looks strange on his soft face, as strange as a baggy sweatshirt does. "We are human too, you know. We're both Nations and humans, aru." That catches Romano's attention, and China feels the younger tense beneath his hand.

"We're not human." How can Romano sound so sure of that fact? It almost makes China smile, Romano's certainty.

"Yes we are." A pause, a breathe, a flicker of memory and times long past in dark gold eyes. "At least I am, aru. I am the first person who ever looked at the land he lived in and said "this land is China"." Romano is listening by now. His shoulders are tight, and he is hardly breathing, he is focused so hard on hearing every word.

China continues, his voice rising and falling in pitch and tone with each word. "That man, who became me, turned into China, into me, in that one moment and lost everything, aru. If he had a family, he could no longer be with them. If he had a job, it was no longer necessary for him to do it. If he had the world cradled in his hands, he had to let it go. If he had a name, that was lost too, or maybe I took that on when I call myself Wang Yao."

Another pause, a deep breath. Romano asks in a quiet voice, almost not sure if he should say the words or not, "Was it worth it?"

China – ancient, ancient China, who has seen history pass him by and still looks like a teenager, China who fights and plays and dances and acts so young – looks so fragile at that one tiny moment in time that it is heartbreaking. Romano is almost afraid, in that moment, that China will die, even if he has survived hundreds and thousands of years.

"I don't know, aru." That split-second of insecurity on China's face makes the world freeze for a moment. Romano doesn't think he's ever seen China look so doubtful before. "I don't know. I am immortal, but that is more of a curse than a blessing, aru. I have seen years go by, and yet I still know nothing."

A instant's pause, a thoughtfully sad expression. "I almost wish that whoever became me had been allowed to live out his own life instead of sacrificing it so I could live mine, aru."

There's a crunch of footsteps on shattered tiles and broken-down rubble. Turkey clambers back into view, his expression distinctly irritated. The sharp edge in his eyes softens, however, when he sees China and Romano, one crying and the other about to.

"Germany needs your help with tending to Spain, China," he says, squatting down besides Romano so he can look China in the eye. China's long hair had fallen in his face, and he stares through it like a screen, golden eyes glittering.

There's a heartbeat of uncomfortable silence, something none of them can break and not sure how to begin cracking the surface of, and then China hums an affirmative and unfolds his legs to stand at his full height.

He turns on his heel and strides past Turkey and Romano into the darkness of the London ruins, losing himself from their sight among towering pillars of what were once proud homes and buildings, places where if things weren't always happy, at least they were more cheerful than things are now.

Turkey grins at Romano. His teeth glint in the darkness, and Romano thinks of how strange it is to be able to see all of Turkey's face. The mask is gone, yet another thing the war broke. "Ready to head back, kid? The others are waiting."

"I'm not a kid," Romano grumbles as he scrambles up to his feet. He is shaky, unsteady, and his head is pounding, but he stubbornly marches in the direction of their camp. Turkey trails behind him, a wisp of a ghost with a Cheshire cat grin.

"Sure ya ain't," Turkey says, jogging to catch up. Romano increases his pace just a little bit. "But I'm older than ya, and I was an adult while you were still a runny-nose brat." A pause. "'sep your nose still runs, and you're still kinda bratty. So that gives me the right to call ya kid." He beams, looking ever-so-proud of himself. The wind makes his hair stick up in spikes.

Romano snorts and wipes his nose. He's almost jogging now, trying to keep ahead of Turkey, even though he know Turkey isn't stupid enough to try anything with the world in the state like it is. Turkey falls silent after a few moment's babble of how ancient he is and how he deserves more respect, and they walk the rest of the way to their camp in tense silence.

Romano wonders how Spain is doing. He wonders how sick the older Nation is, and something wraps around his heart, squeezing tightly. Worry? Possibly. Fear? Yes. Anger with Spain for not showing before how sick he was? A little, but Romano knows it might not be entirely Spain's fault this time around.

When they reach the camp, France is pouring a bucket of dirt over the still-hot embers of the campfire. He glances up when Romano's foot cracks a tile lying on the ground in half, and smiles humorlessly.

"Wind's too high," he says by way of explanation as he upends the bucket, letting the dirt fall like filthy rain. "Germany told me to put it out before anything else caught fire. They're in the common room, by the way."

Romano's lips tighten, and he walks past France without saying a word. Turkey stays behind to help France spread the dirt more evenly, to make sure every flicker of fire is gone.

The common room, their simple underground meeting room, is buzzing. China barks out orders for herbal ingredients, Italy helps pound them into a paste, Canada tears up old clothing to use as bandages, sightless eye desperate.

Germany and Greece are trying to force Spain to lie still on a makeshift bed – seizures seem to have started since Romano last saw him, and he trashes around violently, yelling words that could be Spanish or just pure nonsense. Blood is bubbling up at the corner of his lips to run down his chin like a waterfall, red as death.

Italy is the only one who notices when Romano silently slips in. Romano's eyes are blank as he watches Spain twist and turn, and he doesn't say a word.

Italy mutters something to China, and China nods, taking the little bowl full of ground herbs away from Italy to pass it off to Japan so Italy can speak to his twin. Romano doesn't even flinch as Italy places one gentle hand on his shoulder.

"He'll be fine," Italy says softly, pouring as much honesty into the words that he can. He has to believe this himself, or he will never be able to convince his brother of it. "China's making some herbal drinking to flush out his system. He's never dealt much with radiation poisoning though – he's going to try different things to try and stop it from getting worse."

Romano's eyes are a million miles away. "If he dies, you know I'll die too."

Italy's smile has no warmth. It's as cold as a snowy day in what was once Russia and as bleak as the landscape outside. "Of course I know that," he says gently. His fingers dig into his brother's shoulders, almost painfully. "But if you die, I'll die too."

Romano hums, and looks away, shaking his head. His long hair flops with the movement. "No you won't. Germany wouldn't let you."

Another cold, bleak smile. "I know. But I also know that Germany will try his hardest to keep Spain alive because he also doesn't want to lose anyone else." Romano's throat is tightening, and his eyes are burning with even more tears.

_How many more tears do I have to spill until I've cried enough?_

Italy pulls his brother into a hug, and both of them shut their eyes, trying to find a moment's silence amongst people fighting nature to keep someone dear to them all alive and breathing.

Both pray, sending a silent wish up to a God neither is sure exists now or not, a God who left them all in their darkest hour, a God who just might be toying with them or a God who just might no longer care.

_Please...save us all._

_--- _

**Author's Note**

**Sorry this took so long to post. School and all. I kinda like this chapter, though, so I hope it was worth the wait for everyone else.**

**Radiation poisoning is actually really interesting - part of why this took so long was the research on radiation poisoning, and I got a bit sucked into it. What will happen to Spain next?! **

**Also, next journal entry: Italy, Turkey, or Greece. Who shall it be?  
**


	12. Italy

_DATE:_

_They used to say things have to get worse before they can get better. And I used to believe them._

_Please note the "used to". No one says anything like that now, because we have no idea that if by saying that, we will invite even more tragedy upon ourselves and it's best not to risk it now. And I don't believe them anymore, simply because I've lost faith in just about everything._

_It's hard to believe in anything when your whole world has gone belly up and nothing is the way it once was. Before the war, I did believe in God, the goodness of humanity and angels and all that, but now...God abandoned all of mankind to face this new world on our own, and I don't have it in me to praise him for it._

_God left Lovino a wreck and left Antonio to die. God left Arthur to cry himself to death and left Matthew to lose sight of everything. God left Toris silent and broken and left Berwald hard and untouchable. God left us all, and I can't bring myself to love him any longer._

_It's cold now, and rain and sleet come down in buckets almost daily. We can't cook up on the surface right now – wind's too high, and there's too much rain. So Ludwig's using a camp stove to heat up us Nations' dinner – at least I think it's dinner, it could be lunch – and Yao's waiting to use the stove to heat tea for Antonio._

_Antonio is better than he was when he collapsed four days ago. He isn't throwing up blood now, but he's still too weak to stand on his own, and he's lost all of his hair – something that Kiku says is a common side-affect of radiation poisoning. It's strange, to see him bald, and Kiku says it might take months for his hair to start growing again._

_He doesn't answer when we ask him about how or when or even why he could have been exposed to enough radiation to make him sick – he just smiles and looks away._

_Lovino is so angry with him. When Antonio woke up, the first thing he did was hug him, and then he hit him, repeatedly, until Gilbert and Francis dragged him away because there was a chance Lovi could make Antonio sicker with beating on him like that._

_That was yesterday, and we haven't seen Lovi since – I think he went to another one of the underground rooms, one filled with humans, not Nations. He's angry with all of us._

_Because of the rain, there is nothing we can do outside, and so I spent much of the day before Matthew gave me this journal talking to Greece about what he found in Africa. Some people don't even know the war even happened – something I envy; I wish I could forget everything about that war – and they're continuing with their normal lifestyles like nothing has happened._

_There is food there, and it's warmer there than it is here, and if we went there, we could have teachers to instruct us in how to survive this strange new world. There are people living normal lives there and doing normal things, and there is a chance that if we went there, we could live._

_I want to leave here._

_I don't like living in post-war England with its ruined homes and broken people, and I don't like the cold that seeps in under the door when we're not paying attention to it. I want to go some place where we will have food, and warmth, and people who still know how to get by, because we sheltered ones certainly don't by now – we've lost that knowledge to the years that have gone by._

_Ludwig doesn't want to go, however, so I'm being pulled in two directions – what I wish to do and what Ludwig, who I can't leave even now, wishes to do. And we can't take Antonio in his current condition – he'd die fairly quickly because of his sickness, and Matthew's sight would hold us back, slow us down, but I so do want to leave this place._

_I'm getting off subject again. There's far too much to say, and not nearly enough time to say or write it all...and I must venture off subject again to comment on how strange that sounds, coming from me. I am Italy. I used to have time for everything, no matter how silly, time-consuming or strange that "everything" was._

_But I don't have that kind of time now. And the world's to blame for it._

_We have to leave England. Winter is fast approaching, and it won't be pretty. Sleet, rain – we are already running low on fuel for the camp stoves; what will we do in the darkest months when we don't have any fuel left and no way of cooking outside?_

_But Antonio is sick, and Ludwig refuses to leave. Some of the others are growing angry and impatient – Heracles and Sadiq, for example. They long for the warmer climates that they are used to and hate the chill and the little food here. Momo – Madagascar – keeps saying she wants to go back home to her island._

_Ludwig is sort of the leader here, the one who keeps us all in line, but no one is ecstatic about his decision to stay here all winter instead of heading south. Even Arthur – the personification of England himself - who is used to this type of weather, complains bitterly._

_I worry that they will rise against Germany and defeat him in some way, and then head south, or just leave the middle of the night without a word._

_If that happens, I would be forced to go – my brother would leave in a heartbeat, and force me to stay with him – because that is what I promised when Italy became its own Nation; that I would forever be with my brother._

_This is getting rambly, boring, and a repeat of what the others said before. I admit to the fact that I read their entries, and I have to comment on the fact that none of them are very optimistic right now, except for possibly Antonio and Francis._

_Something will happen soon – with everyone as tense, angry and as grief-stricken as they are, it's obvious that some kind of change will come about very soon._

_But I have to believe that it will be a good change. I have to try, and I will try my hardest to force myself into that belief._

_I wonder if anyone would listen if I left a blessing, or if they'd skip over my entirely for the wiser words of Yao, or Ludwig, or even my brother. I can't be wise if so many people say I am such a silly fool._

_But I will leave a blessing anyway._

_All I want you to do is go outside. Stand out in the middle of a grassy place, preferably barefoot. Dig your toes into the grass, tilt your head back, and shut your eyes. Raise your arms, palms upwards, and face the sky above you._

_Breathe._

_That is all I want you to do. Just breathe, and reveal in the fact that you are alive._

_My warning is that if you don't remember to breathe, you suffocate, and then everything spins downwards from there._

_My dear brother...dry your eyes, Antonio will live. Believe in that fact, and never lose hope again._

_Kiku, no one blames you for anything. If anything, we are just as much at fault as you are. Smile, and relax. We will make it through this._

_Ludwig, I tell you this every day, in one way or another, but you've never believed me. Not even now. Is it because you don't think you deserve love? But it is no matter, I love you anyway, and I trust you to get us out of this._

_And for my final word - wait...shh. Can you hear it?_

_Our heartbeats. Our breathing. We are living. And there is no reason as to why we cannot continue to do so._

_- Italy _

_----_

**Author's Note**

**Jeez, is this rambly or what? Anyway, that's Italy's entry. Hope ya liked and all that.**

**Now for Wolfi's little annoyed rambling:**

**This was actually done on Monday, but my computer was being emo and wouldn't let me do anything, and then my internet crashed, and then I had to go spend more time in my gym because I had a meet to train for. So...yeah. Life was being complicated. Anyway, should Turkey or Greece go next?  
**


	13. Greece

_Date:_

_I do not care what the others say, or how much Germany protests that we cannot leave the dead that still lie in the streets. I am leaving soon, and I will go to Africa, the other Nations be dammed. They can stay here and rot in the cold – I refuse to do so. I refuse to give up and die – dying now would be weak, and I, Greece, am not weak, no matter how lazy and tired I may have acted in the past._

_Others agree with me, that we must leave – like Turkey. He agrees. He knows what will happen if we stay here. For once, he has decided to acknowledge that I also have knowledge of the world and has decided that we must leave this place. I wonder if he's plotting something, because he has __**never** agreed with me before the war. Manipulative bastard could just be using me to achieve his own ends. I wouldn't put it past him; he's done it before._

_But maybe he's changed now. Maybe he doesn't have his own agenda to fulfill. But this is **Turkey** I am talking about – he always has a reason for making one decision, thinking ahead a dozen or so moves. I can't believe that he changed that easily._

_But then again, before the war, I fell asleep at the drop of a hat. I can't do that any more – the ground is uneven, and rocks jab my back every time I love over. Before the war, I sort of liked being in London for long periods – it was a change from my land. And now, I will be perfectly content if I never see an English sky again._

_Because before the war, everything was perfect, beautiful. It was a god damn Golden Age – the way everything was. I just didn't realize that it was until the Golden Age fell and life dropped me back into the second Stone Age._

_I miss my land. I miss warm weather, and warm ocean water, and the sun on my face, the wind in my hair. I miss spending days on grassy hillsides with my cats. I miss days spent evacuating the ruins my mother left behind._

_And that is why I will leave here, at any cost._

_Turkey, Madagascar – Momo – and I are already packing up food and enough clothing to make it. Momo is talking to some of the children about leaving for the warmer South – they believe she is a child like them, and therefore when she tells them of our plans, they can't see the flaws in them like they would if Turkey and I were the ones to tell them. She already has a small group consisting of about twelve, thirteen children, all orphans, and all desperate to find some kind of a better life._

_And Turkey has found nine adults willing to go with us – adults that have no ties left here and want to make a fresh start. A small group we will make with nine adults, twelve children, and two Nations , yes, but it is better than nothing, and hopefully we will all make it to Africa's coast. It's a long journey, but we can do it._

_I know this journal is meant to record our feelings about the ending of the war and all that, but frankly, right now I don't care about feelings or remembering the war that stole my life away from me. I will use it to double check my plans, to reread them, look over them and see what else we need to take or what route we should consider._

_First of all, for everyone who is going with us, they get to bring only one shoulder bag. There are only two horses here now, and it would look suspicious if we took them with us. Walking it is, and we must travel light in order to make good time before winter comes._

_Everyone will take six cans of some kind of processed food. We can hunt and gather after those run out – Turkey and I have been alive long enough to have knowledge of how to do so, and years of living in comfort hadn't quite stolen that from us. Thankfully._

_Like I said before, everyone gets one bag. One change of clothes, one warm coat, a blanket, six cans of food, and two to three small things that they can't bear to leave behind._

_We'll steal the raft we use to make trips to the mainland and back – it's big enough that Turkey and I can get the whole group across in only two trips. Afterwards, we'll tie the raft to some rock on the mainland – who knows, someone might be crazy enough to swim across the channel to see if they can find it, and why should we let a perfectly good raft go adrift? We're not that heartless just yet._

_But anyway, we're going to head south-east from there. We're going by way of my place and Turkey's land, then head south-west from there, down through Egypt, to Sudan, and finally reaching a village I had visited in Ethiopia that offered to let us stay there if we needed to do so._

_I will sound heartless for this, I know. But I have to say that once I leave England, I will feel better. When I reach Africa, I think life will be fantastic again._

_Hopefully. Maybe. It might not be, because I'll have to work in the village. Pulling my own weight and all that. Doing my fair share._

_But unlike the sorry saps I am surrounded by here, I will be doing something. I will be making my life better, because I refuse to let this new world rule my destiny, and what I have left of a life to live._

_I will fight to make my world better once again. It won't be like how it was before the war, but it will be better than what the Nations around me are contenting themselves with. My world won't be cold nor gray. My world will be filled with hard work under a hot sun and the laughter of people who haven't had their lives shatter in front of them._

_My world, my life, will be the happiest I can make it, given the circumstances._

_Turkey, our little group and I will be leaving for Africa in exactly one week. In one week, I can say good bye to England for the last time, good bye to cloudy skies and ruined cities. Good bye to hopeless people who lost their will to fight, good bye to Nations who are just waiting to die._

_I'll miss some of them, I suppose – Japan and his funny way of doing things, Germany with his determination, but who knows? Maybe by leaving, Turkey and I will knock some sense into their heads and they'll come running after us._

_Or, you know, they'll stay here through the winter and either freeze to death or starve. I'll admit I hope they follow us, but it's their own decision to make, not mine._

_I'm through with living in the cold with little food or shelter. I doubt I'll ever see this journal again, so I'll put in one word for my fellow Nations, because I know some of them are going to break the rules and read it anyway._

_To the Nations – we had some good times, in the past. We had laughter and lives, and people we loved and cared for. Some of us still have those people. Some of us don't._

_But we still have each other. Even though Turkey and I are leaving here, we still have people we care about staying in England. Everyone still has someone that was thrilled to see them survive that war, and we are not alone._

_Turkey and I will be hoping you'll join us in Africa, but if you don't, then we wish you the best._

_- Greece_

_----_

**Author's Note**

**Well, that certainly went everywhere. Greece seems more scatter-brained than I am, O.o Or at least my interpretation of him makes him out to be pretty scatter-brained.**

**Next update will be one with everyone, not a journal entry. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it!  
**


	14. All IV

The moment Italy opens his eyes, he knows something was wrong. That something had changed overnight, and that now everything was different. Something was either wrong or right with the world now, and it wasn't that way last night when he fell asleep.

Italy sits up and glances around the little underground room. All the other Nations are still sprawled out under their blankets, still deeply asleep. Maybe that is what is wrong, Italy thinks. He is never the first awake.

But no, he knows that is not right. Something bigger than him waking up early has happened, and he can't pin down what it is, what happened, what has changed. Italy sighs, and scratches the back of his head, eying each of the Nations and counting off who is there.

Germany, sprawled on the ground by the door, holding a small pistol loosely in his right hand. Japan is sitting on the other side of the door, back pressed up against the wall, holding a knife in his hands as his head lolls forward to hit his chest, breathing even and deep. A smile tugs at Italy's lips. Some things just never change.

Romano and Spain shoved themselves into a corner to Italy's right, hugging each other close and curling up together to save heat. China sleeps next to Japan. France and Prussia are lying eagle-spread in the middle of the room, taking up twice as much room as they need. Canada, Norway, Austria and Denmark had tucked themselves into the back of the room. England fell asleep next to the tunnel's entrance. In the tunnel, India, Thailand and Brazil have curled up to one another, each holding onto a corner of the same blanket. Lithuania sleeps curled up at the end of the room farthest away from the door.

Italy smiles briefly as he looks around the room. Everyone looks years younger when they sleep – sharp lines fade, worry wrinkles disappear. But there is still something off here, and Italy glances around the room, counting up the number of people there. It takes a moment, but he finally realizes what he wasn't seeing before.

Three of the Nations are missing. Italy bites his lip. Maybe they went for food, or water, or to check on the children...

"They left last night." Lithuania's voice is soft, fading, quiet as a whisper of wind. His green eyes peer at Italy through thick, dark lashes. There is no sign of a smile on his usually gentle face. "Late. Turkey, Madagascar and Greece. They waited until Japan and Germany fell asleep, and then slipped on by them."

"Why didn't you try and stop them?" Italy asks quietly. His gaze has dropped down to his hands as he twists them in his one blanket, tangling up his fingers so he can focus on them and not what Lithuania is saying. Lithuania finally smiles, but it is a cold, lonely smile. It is a smile without warmth, without that spark Lithuania used to have, all the time, without even trying. But that was before the war, before the world ended, and before Poland died.

"They wouldn't listen to me if I tried to stop them," Lithuania replies, lowering his eyes. "And they needed to leave. I know where they are going. Unlike me, they're not made for cold weather. Neither are you, or at least you're not made for the type of cold weather England usually has."

He pauses, and then his cold smile widens. "I'm sure you feel it too. That desire...to leave, to travel south, to be in a climate you know and can live in. That wish...to be surrounded by things you know, people you love." He falls silent, and his eyes shut. Italy knows he isn't asleep, though. His breathing is too erratic, too uneven.

"I can't leave Germany," Italy says softly. Lithuania snorts, a sharp gust of air.

"I'm not saying you should head south like Greece, Turkey and Madagascar," Lithuania replies. His eyes open to a thin sliver again, glowing venom green in the gloom. "I'm just saying that deep inside of you, you know you aren't meant to be here. You're not meant for this cold, this arid air, this...horribly empty world. You need people, and warmth, and light. Not what we have here. You'll need to move on to find that."

"What about you?" Italy asks, tilting his head back so he can look Lithuania in the eye. Green and brown clash, exhaustion and numbness, one beyond caring and one trying to care. Lithuania shakes his head, but barely. His hair makes a rustling noise against the cold concrete.

"No...I don't need any of that," he whispers. "I have people back in my homeland. I can survive there. The only reason I came here was to see if Poland was here...if he had lived." He pauses a moment, and inhales deeply. "But since he's dead, I have no real reason to be here. Latvia, Estonia, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine...they're all dead too. I have no people I really love left." Another moment of silence. "All I have left are my people, and my land, and I'm not even close to them now."

Italy can't think of anything to say, so he waits in silence. After a long moment of ringing quiet, Lithuania adds on, "That's why I'm leaving soon, too."

"Where to?" Italy's voice is calm, unsurprised. He'd suspected for a while Lithuania was going to leave them, leave the Nations. He always seemed lost there, like he was just drifting on the edge, trying to decide whether he should stay or move on.

Lithuania smiles tiredly, eyes half-shut once more. "Home. I'm going to go home." The words are said in a mere breath. "I can't die, because I've survived this long. But there is no one here I have to live for, so I'll go back home and live for my people."

Italy nods once, and then scrambles to his feet. Lithuania watches him through thick eyelashes, but says nothing. Italy creeps across the room to where Germany lies, and taking a deep breath, kneels beside him to gently shake his shoulder. "Germany. Wake up." The words are sterner then what Lithuania is used to hearing from carefree Italy, but then again, Lithuania is more a cynical person then he was before his whole world shattered from in between his fingers.

It takes a moment, but finally Germany's ice-blue eyes blink open, unfocused and foggy from sleep. He peers up at Italy, looking confused and lost. Italy smiles briefly, and then says, "Greece, Turkey and Madagascar have left us, Germany." He tries to not sound like he is nervous, or scared, but making his voice unemotional isn't like him, so he tries for concerned and hopes Germany does not notice the tremor to his words.

Germany blinks once, twice, and sits up straight. Italy sits back on his heels as Germany rakes a hand through his messy, greasy blonde hair. "When?" His voice slurs; sleep is still palpable in his tone and his eyes.

"Sometime last night," Italy replies, "After you and Japan fell asleep. They are heading south." He hesitates a moment, and shuts his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply. He has to do this. Lithuania is right, in what he said now – that Italy has to leave some day, and Germany was right, in what he said long ago – Italy can't run forever. "And I'll be leaving today too. I'm going to go join them."

Germany's eyes snap open, and his whips around to face Italy. His eyes are pleading, desperate, lonely. They almost make Italy wince, those eyes – they look like they had when Italy surrendered in that long-ago World War, the one that started everything. "But...why? We have food here. Your brother is here. You can survive if you stay here, Italy, please think this -"

"I've thought it through." Something in Italy's tone makes Germany pauses and fall silent. Italy looks determined, strong. He never looked that way before. He doesn't feel strong. Inside, he is shaking, crying, wishing he could take back what he said, but the words are tumbling out now, and there is no way to stop them. "This place...I can't live here, Germany. All my people are either still in Italy, or they left for Africa a long time ago. I only came up here, to England, to find you. And now that I know you're okay...I can leave, even if you're not going to come with me."

He gets to his feet, and brushes off the knees of his filthy pants. Germany's face is tight, lips in a thin line, eyes shadowed and unreadable. Italy smiles sympathetically down at him. Bending at the waist, he leans down and breathes in Germany's ear, "I'll still love you, even if you stay here, you know. But you have to let me go some time. I can't survive here...but you can. You're meant for what this place needs of you. I'm...not."

Germany doesn't move, doesn't make any sign that he heard Italy speak at all. Italy straightens up, and sighs, before turning sharply on his heel and striding to where Romano and Spain are curled up together. Stopping besides his brother, he bends at the waist again, and pokes his brother's shoulder.

"_Fratello_...wake up," he whispers, letting his warm breath ghost over his brother's face. Romano's eyebrows twitch as he yawns and stretches one arm out, popping his neck. His hand rams into Spain's face, contorting the skin as Spain's dark green eyes blink sleepily open.

"Feli...?" Romano murmurs groggily, turning to face his twin, green eyes fogged over with sleep. "What...?"

Italy smiles indulgently and kneels besides his brother and Spain. "_Fratello, _I want to go south," he says. Romano stares vapidly at him, sleep forcing his thought process down to a crawl. Italy waits a moment, and then adds on, "I'm leaving today. I don't know about you, my brother, but I just can't live here any more. Something...wants me to go south. My people. My land. My desire to escape all this." He gestures around the room.

Romano's eyes are less blurry now, and there is a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Spain has fallen back asleep, draping himself over Romano's back. "Have you told the potato bastard yet?" he asks.

Italy hesitates, and then nods. Romano sighs and shakes his head. Spain lets out a breathy snore. "I know what you mean," Romano says wearily. "Something has been calling me to go to the south too. I ignored it, because Spain was sick...and I didn't think you wanted to leave Germany. I wanted you to be happy. I never thought you'd want to leave him behind."

"I don't," Italy agrees, leaning forward so he can rest his forehead against his brother's. "My chest hurts at the thought of leaving him here. But...he's made his choice, and I've made mine. I can't live like this for much longer."

Romano glances at the ground, and Italy waits patiently while his twin thinks. "If you're leaving..." Romano stumbles over a few words, biting his lip, "I'm going with you. Spain and I were planning to leave eventually, anyway. And I just...want sunshine, green grass, blue sky..." he chuckles softly, running one hand through his greasy hair. "I want to see things that remind me that life is really worth living."

Italy's tiny grin was the first real grin Romano has seen on his brother's face in months. "Romano, there is something worth living for. We just have to remember what it really is." Italy whispers.

Romano smiles thinly back him, before saying, "If we're leaving, we have to get packed now. I'll wake Spain." Italy nods, and stands up to go back to his blanket in his little space, passing Germany on his way. His steps falter as he passes the blonde Nation by. Germany hasn't moved since Italy told him was leaving. His icy eyes are fixed on the far wall, unseeing and unreadable. Italy bites his lip and heads to his few things. Germany will be all right without him. Germany is a fighter, a survivor, who will refuse to let Italy's leaving get him down. Italy has to be able to believe that Germany will live, will survive, even without him there to watch him do so.

Later, when bags are packed and Nations are awake, they are all standing by the doorway, all of the Nations' eyes fixed on Italy, Romano and Spain. Germany still hasn't moved, and he doesn't seem to notice they are leaving as Italy and Spain receive hugs and Romano watches with his arms crossed over his chest, playing the protective big brother perfectly.

"You're breaking him down again," France whispers in Italy's ear as he hugs him tightly. Italy doesn't need to ask who "he" is. He knows. He'll always know who people are referring to, when it comes to Germany.

"He'll be better off without me," Italy murmurs back, returning the hug gently. "And France...please take care of Canada. You're hurting him by ignoring him." France hums in reply, seeming to understand and know what Italy is really saying, and lets go, stepping away from Italy.

Italy lets his eyes roam over the crowd of people before him, feeling his chest ache. These are people he grew up with. These are people he's made pasta for, spent days laughing with, given presents and his friendship, even when his country denied him the ability to help them when they needed it. These people are his family, his friends -what is he thinking, by leaving them all behind, just so he can be happy? How can he be so selfish?

But he has made his decision, and – he squares up his shoulders and straightens his back – he intends to carry through with it. He has to. He has to leave, and believe that his friends, his family, the Nations, will live, somehow.

His eyes stop on Germany, looking down into icy eyes. His heart cracks a little. Germany looks like his whole world just fell from in between his fingers, and he had no way to stop it, and no way to bring it back. Italy wonders how his leaving could bring such a strong person to stoop so low, as to actually show that it hurt and that he had no idea what to do now.

Italy forces his gaze away from Germany. If he keeps looking at him, he'll never be able to stop, and then he will stay here and Romano and Spain will have to go on their own. He lets his gaze settle on England – a neutral target; England tends to keep more and more to himself nowadays, as months go by without news from America and the possibly that he still lived trickles down the drain.

"Goodbye, my friends," Italy says softly. His voice does not crack, and he takes a small amount of pride in that. "Someday, we will meet again."

"Are you sure you're well enough to travel, Spain?" Prussia asks. He looks concerned, the bags under his dulled eyes showing just how much the Prussian has lost and how much he is afraid he has left to lose – including one of his oldest and dearest friends – either to travel or the sickness that already claimed so much of him.

Spain gives him a flash of a grin, white teeth glowing in the gloom. He looks strange without his hair – his head catches the light and bounces it off in strange directions. "I'll be fine," he says confidently. "My people are strong. There are new babies that have been born recently – new Spanish blood! Their strength is helping me to fight. I'm sure I will make this journey through. If my people are alive, after all, I cannot die."

Prussia still looks unconvinced, but he nods slowly. He is worried for his old friend – Spain is reckless, careless, oblivious to danger, and Prussia feels that his friend cannot see the risks in heading out to travel thousands of miles while he is still so weak.

But there is no point in telling Spain this, so he steps forward and gives him a brief hug instead. Spain laughs softly, patting Prussia's back, and pulls away gently, backing up so he can look up into his long-time friend's eyes.

"I will see you again some day." The way he says it almost makes Prussia feel like Spain is ordering him to not die and stay alive, if only for him. Spain's eyes are warmly affectionate as he turns back towards Romano.

There is another stretch of silence, and then Romano mutters, "Well, I suppose we're off now," and turns away stiffly, heading for the stairs that lead up to what remains of their world. Italy and Spain, after a moment's pause, follow him, and there is another wave of calls and well-wishing after them, as the door creaks open.

The Nations all fall silent once they hear the door click into place, and they look at each other, trying not to show how worried they truly are. France summons up what he believes to be a true smile, and says grandly, "Well, there is no time for dilly-dallying! Has anyone but me realized that we have not yet had our lunch?"

The others grab hold of this simple distraction, using it like a lifeline as they clamor that yes, they are starving, is there food to eat, and gosh, where did all of the morning go? And in the corner, Germany sits quietly, staring up at the exit, wondering where exactly things went wrong, and why he is suddenly all alone.

----

**Author's Note**

**Well, this certainly took some time to get done. Sorry 'bout that. Anyway, hope you enjoy, thanks for reviewing, next entry will be England's. Goodnight.  
**


	15. England

_DATE: I don't even care_

_A man died yesterday. His name was Gary Dutcher, he was twenty years old, and he died from a bad cold._

_You know, before the war, we could have saved him. We had machines and drugs and doctors and stuff like that. He could have gone to the hospital and been wrapped up in a warm blanket in a dry room, which we don't have here. He wouldn't have died. People died from big things like cancer and AIDS before the war. They didn't die from colds, and they almost never died from flus._

_Things have changed, I guess. Because now we have people who are dying from everyday, common things like colds and flus, and things that killed people years ago like whopping cough and diphtheria, diseases I haven't seen in years, are running loose across the land again._

_God, I hate this. I don't think I've hated what I am as fiercely as I do now since the end of the first World War. I hate being a country, and I hate how many people I've seen die, and how fucking many I was helpless to save._

_Some of the other countries are so lucky, because they haven't been around as long as I have. Take Alfred, for example. So much younger than I. He knows nothing of the world compared to me. He's seen only a fraction of the years I have. He's had his share of death, but it isn't as great as mine._

_Lucky little twit. And of course, now that we've lived through the biggest war in human history, he has to fucking disappear off the face of the planet. Can't even be bothered to search for us, like Matthew did. It makes me wonder where I went wrong with that silly boy, to have him turn out like this._

_But...I miss so badly at the same time. Every thing's gone so wrong. It's not just the world ending, it's everything else. Kanta, who used to be my colony, won't say a word to me – but she hardly speaks to anyone now, so I must not take it too personally. Matthew, who I helped raise, prefers that bloody frog's company over my own. Hell, even the bloody frog won't fight with me or argue with me now. "There's no point to it," he says. "I'm tired of fighting."_

_Why can't at least one bloody thing be like it was before that goddamn war? Is that too much to ask for?_

_Well, I suppose if there is a god, he's having a hearty laugh at us right now and our desperate attempts to make it here. The prick._

_But I'm getting off subject. The point is, Alfred's still missing, Matthew is seeing less and less everyday, six of our number have left – Lithuania departed the day after Italy, Romano and Spain did – and a man died from a common cold._

_But I suppose I must touch on Lithuania's leaving. He wanted to go home, he said. He wanted to help his people, and he thought he was imposing on us._

_The lad's changed – he used to be so bloody polite, and now he's coldly sarcastic and distant, unwelcoming and difficult to talk to. He used to be one of the lights of the Nations – a person who everyone could count on, who had a smile and a true desire to help._

_The war changed everyone – some in little ways, some in huge. Some people just cry themselves to sleep now, some cry every second on the day. Some people try to scrunch themselves into a corner if yelling starts up, and some people hyperventilate and break down at the slightest sign of raised voices._

_'tis a sad thing when people break down. I've seen a lot of it, in my many years – and I used to help reduce Nations like me to tears when I was a Druid, and then a pirate, and then a conquer! Those were fine days, when the air was warm and there was a reek of freedom and adventure in the breeze. There was a hope that things would change and could change in a instant – but now we'll be lucky if half of us see the next spring. That is my view, anyway – it's been a long time since any of the Nations had to "rough it" and we're a little out of practice. Many of the people here have no idea what life outside of a city is like._

_I do believe I'm rambling, but I suppose there is no cure for it. There is no way to let loose what you are thinking and feeling nowadays – everyone's got their problems, and no one wants to burden anyone else unnecessarily. I don't think I've ever missed my therapist this much; before my only real way to express what I feel died in bombing._

_I'm just tired. Tired of...well, not everything, but close to it. I'm not tired of fighting and staying strong, but if this keeps up, I will be. And that scares me, because once you loose the will to fight, what do you have left?_

_I think it's only the idea that Alfred might be alive that is keeping me here. Matthew and that frog and the others play a part, yes, but without Alfred, it's meaningless. Without Alfred, there's nothing there, and nothing left._

_Which is a strange way to be thinking of him as, because before the war, the boy drove me up one wall and down the other. He gave me grief and made me loose my temper – which no gentleman should ever do! - and made me break down and cry once I was sure I was in a room by myself more than once. He twisted and changed the ways I saw the world, until I wasn't sure if I was looking through his eyes or my own. He made me try new things and talk to new people, and he was always laughing the whole bloody time._

_I believe the world needs his laughter back. Something here is missing without it, and I don't quite know what it truly is._

_I'm still praying that I will find Alfred. That he will come and find us, or somehow we'll learn of what happened to him. Even knowing he's dead would be better than having no bloody clue at all, which is what it's been for the last...eight months?_

_Has it really been eight months since the war was declared officially over? It feels longer than that, and yet, at the same time, it feels like it all ended yesterday. We Nations were the ones to declare it over – and no one's sure of who won, and we don't care – because all of our officials had died._

_Well, that's not true. Spain's royal family survived, but they didn't really run things. Yao's boss, France's boss and Germany's boss all lived, but from what Germany told me, his boss is just working as another civilian to try and survive. Rank and privilege tend to loose importance when faced with the biggest disaster in all of human history._

_My mind is slipping again. I am dreadfully sorry to whoever is reading this – so many people seem to just talk on and on nowadays, and I suppose not even a Nation is an exception to that suddenly universal rule._

_But there is one thing left to discuss – our supplies. I believe we have enough. Heartless as this may sound, Spain, Romano and Italy's and the other's leaving could not have come at a better time. Kiku did the calculations today – we have more than enough food for this winter. Yao is trying to brush up on current medicine with a medical textbook we found in the ruins of an old apartment building._

_There is...Can I really use this word? I think I can, now. There is hope for the future. We can do this. We can live, survive, grow. Maybe we'll be around long enough to see new Nations take the olds' places. Because there will be new Nations, and new people, and new things. We have to believe and hope in at least that much._

_God might have abandoned us, but we humans are hardy folks. We do not need a supernatural being in the sky for everything, even though he used to be a comfort._

_Now is as good a time to end this entry to this sad journal as any, I believe._

_But first, my blessing._

_Even when it feels like it's the end, it might not be. Everything might feel hopeless, and it might be, but you have to keep fighting. Happy endings only happen to those who work for them._

_And now for my warning – people can be two-faced and almost always have their fingers crossed behind their backs. Watch out for them and be wary of what you say – it may be used against you later, to hurt and break you._

_And to my dear ones._

_To France – I still think you're a bloody idiot, but that doesn't change the fact that if you died, some small part of me would have died with you. I miss our banter and our fights, and someday we should be able to be like that again. Sometimes you're my best friend, sometimes my worst enemy, but you're stuck with me now._

_To Matthew – you don't always need eyes to see everything. In those terms, you have the best vision out of all of us._

_To Alfred – you just love to torture me, don't you? Is twisting my heart around and squeezing it just a little bit – enough so it hurts but not so much it shatters – is that fun for you? Do you enjoy watching me break down and cry because I miss you so much? I think you do. I think you love it._

_But it doesn't change the fact that I miss you so much. Please come back to us, Alfred. We all miss you._

_- England_

_----_

**Author's Note**

**Three chapters and this fic is over! Hope you like, thank you for reading, and if you review, I do thank you.  
**


	16. All V

The day is warm enough that many of the people and all of the Nations are sitting outside. The sky is blue and clear, and the air, while not warm, is brisk and welcoming. There are still-drying puddles of water, and the ground is a mess of mud and broken bricks underfoot, but it is better than being cooped up in the underground rooms for another day.

It has been just over three weeks since Romano, Spain and Italy left for Africa. The camp is a little quieter, not as busy, but people know there is still work to be done, and so they bustle about on their various tasks.

Germany is making lunch with a group of people as Canada fingers a guitar, blind eyes staring off into the distance as he absentmindedly strums one chord, and then another. Children laugh and scream nearby, chasing each other around as some elders hurry after them, tired grins on worn faces.

France sits across from Canada, watching as the younger plays softly, quietly. Canada's face is relaxed, not what France would call peaceful, but not worried or stressed. His one eye, clouded to a light lavender, is staring at the near-cloudless sky as his fingers dance.

A minor, D, G, back to A minor...

"You play very well," France comments in a quiet voice. Canada's lips quirk upwards at the edges as his fingers shift again to D minor.

"Living as long as we do means we have time to improve our skills," he replies simply, switching to a faster tempo and changing the tone of the song he is playing. G to C, back to G and then to D... "And I find the guitar to be a relaxing instrument, when used right." The music is light and hopeful, wistful with a touch of teasing. France likes it and the feeling it carries – it is brighter than many feelings around nowadays.

"Blindness does not hamper your skill," France says. Canada's fingers falter for a moment before picking the melody back up.

"I find that my hearing and sense of touch has improved as my vision fades," the younger replies. The melody is a little sharper, harsher, now.

France almost regrets commenting on Canada's skill, but he smiles easily – though Canada cannot see it any longer. "I said that only to say that you are very good at playing the guitar, Canada. Not many people can play as well as you do, even with both eyes." There is a weak smile on Canada's face, but he says nothing as his fingers continue to pluck out the song.

A moment of silence passes between them, before Canada abruptly switches songs again, changing to a slower, sadder tune. "Do you know this one?" he asks, peering in France's direction. The tune is familiar, but France can't place it.

"I'm not sure. Sing the first few bars for me, please."

Canada's voice is wavering, pretty in a almost feminine sort of way, shaking and yet gaining in confidence as he begins to sing. "Blackbird singing in the dead of night...take these broken wings and learn to fly...All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arrive..."

France knows this song, and he joins in, putting his rich tenor next to Matthew's low alto. A few children and a couple of the adults stop what they are doing to watch them. Canada feels the eyes on him, but his fingers never slow as they fly across the stings. It feels good to be singing again – he can't remember the last time he just played his guitar.

A teenager – boy, age seventeen, with coarsely-cut short brown hair – joins them. His voice is surprisingly deep. A young women adds her voice, and a tiny child pips up, and soon there is a whole crowd of people clustered around him, singing the song.

England joins in, picking up another old guitar and picking up the counterpart to Canada. Prussia finds a tambourine and is shaking it gently, not singing, but listening to the song as it flows over him. Sweden digs out an old bass guitar everyone seemed to have passed over, and begins to pluck out the melody, giving it rich undertones. The voices rise and fall in time, singing and singing.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see...All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free..."

At the "sunken eyes" line, Canada's lips tighten, and his fingers miss the next note, but England and Sweden drown out his tiny mistake, and the end of the song casts a quiet, stunned silence over the entire crowd.

Until England starts to play again, and everyone picks up the song, belting out the words to the new tune.

"Look around your world pretty baby, is it everything you hoped it would be..."

Germany watches through the steam rising off the frying pan in front of him, eyes carefully blank and expressionless. Austria, sitting besides him with a spatula in hand, is making no attempt to hide his grin as he watches a group of children get to their feet to spin in circle in time to the music.

"I never thought I would see anyone sing again," Germany murmurs as Prussia passes the tambourine off to China and take the hands of a tiny girl. He is spinning the laughing child around in circles as the song rises and falls, a huge smile plastered across his pale, dirty face as the child shrieks with laughter.

"Music heals people," Austria replies, nudging at the roasting bird with his spatula. "It's good for the soul and for the mind. It's a way to express oneself and say what you're feeling, thinking, hoping. If anyone had tried to sing before a day like this, it would come out empty. Music is just a collection of notes unless you can put something real behind it, and I don't think anyone had anything left to spare until today."

"But what is so special about today?" Germany asks, turning his head to look at Austria. Austria refuses to look at him as he lifts the bird out of the pan and sets it down on a plate, fussing over it for a moment as he thinks about his answer.

"Well..." he begins slowly, "It's sunny out. We have food. We have healthy people. What is there not to be celebrating, Germany?" He glances at the blonde man, and smiles. His eyes are dancing in the sunlight. "We don't need to wait for buildings to be erected and for there to be as silly as a things as self-driving vacuums again to celebrate. We have to take notes of the small things we have right now, Germany. Of we're always looking at what we don't have, we'll always be unhappy. What we have right now is good enough. Appreciated today, Germany – it might be one of the last warm days this year. Now, if you will excuse me..."

With that, Austria rises gracefully to his feet and heads over to the group of laughing, singing, dancing people, leaving Germany and a few others to finish cooking. Germany stares after him, and then turns back to the food with a hefty sigh, knowing everyone will abandon lunch in favor of something they haven't done in months.

Prussia notices as Austria slips into the crowd of people, and he stops spinning the little girl he is dancing with long enough for his arm to flash out and grab his friend's, pulling him into the center of the circle. Austria's hair is hanging in front of his shocked eyes as the child grabs onto his hand and Prussia begins to spin them in circles again, but soon Austria's expression relaxes and he is laughing along with the rest of them.

Songs are picked at random and sung at top volume, ranging from old, pre-World War Two to the latest hit from before the last war had even really started. People sing the Beatles, Jack Johnson, Coldplay...music fills the air with no end, and the songs keep on coming as fast as Canada and England can chose one.

Finally, "Bleeding Love" by Leona Lewis draws to a close, and it is England's turn to pick the song. Brushing his hand over the chords, he thinks for a moment, before plucking out a sweet tune.

"Oh stop your crying, it will be alright...just take my hand and hold it tight..." Canada has a sad grin on his face as he picks up the melody, and the whole crowd slips easily into the old Disney song. England looks at no one as he plays, singing in a soft voice that no one can hear above the roar of the crowd.

"You'll be in my heart...yes, you'll be in my heart..." It's been eight months. There has been no word. But England still doesn't want to let go of that small, small, still flickering hope that America might still be alive.

"You'll be in my heart...always..." Maybe if the crowd sings loud enough, America will hear it. Maybe if he puts enough soul into the song, America'll know what he is doing and how much he is missing him. Maybe if he keeps hoping, America will come back to them, and they won't eventually find his rotting body.

The song draws to an end, and the crowd is silent for a moment, still wearing sad smiles, eyes alive and dancing. England's lips tighten, and he looks away. The quiet rings in his ears, loud, unbreakable, and sad.

"...Mind if I pick the next song?" A voice asks, and England's heart almost stops. He feels it shudder and slow in his chest as his head snaps up, Nations' mouths falling open, as the crowd parts and America struggles through, pushing people out of his way gently. His eyes catch England's and he grins, a sneaky, teasing hint to his expression. Canada is staring blindly in his brother's direction, unseeing eye wide and shocked. Germany has risen to his feet and drifted over to join the group, looking stunned. Kiku has forgotten about the cup of water he was cradling in his hands, and it falls to the filthy ground with a thud. Everyone is in a state of shock after seeing someone who no one has heard nor seen in so long.

America's hair is long, greasy, cut unevenly, and he is covered with dirt and rusty bloodstains. The edges of his pants are soaked in water and ripped, and his bomber jacket is gone. His glasses are cracked, but his grin is still there as he saunters into the middle of the circle, singing without a care in the world. His voice is husky and harsh, but England thinks he has never heard anything so beautiful.

"Surrounded by familiar faces, the people that you love to see, where everyone knows your name, and they're smiling..." Canada's pick up the tune, and soon everyone, even Germany, is singing along. America is dancing in the middle of the circle, and England cannot seem to tear his eyes away from him.

He found them. He lives. He's there, he's real, and he's not dead or missing or broken. A smile cracks England's tired face, and he joins his voice to the others' in song.

"And for the first time, I feel less alone, and for the first time, I can call this home..."

_Yes, _England thinks, _this is home now, because he's here at long last._

_----_

**Author's Note**

**AND HUZZAH IT ALL COMES CLEAR! AMERICA LIVES!**

...Actually, the only reason he lived was because I didn't wanna die. So many of you were hoping for him to live...and there ya go.

The songs they sing are:

Blackbird - the Beatles  
Roll to Me - Del Amitri  
You'll Be in My Heart - Tarzan Soundtrack  
We'll All Be - The Maine

And Merry Christmas, everyone. Thank you for reading, and if you review, my thanks again.


	17. America

_DATE: Either December...or January. I think._

_You know, the world ending isn't as bad as I thought it would be._

_Okay, so there's a lack of food and clothing, and I really miss my laptop, and there's also a really annoying shortage of working toilets and sinks with running water, but it really isn't as bad as I had always thought it would be._

_When I thought about the world ending, I thought it end like it did in that movie 2012 or in those creepy post-apocalyptic medial-mishaps novels or the movie I Am Legend, and that I, the hero, would be reduce to fending off a zombie with the back of a hardcover book, a iron pipe, and maybe a handgun with a few bullets, and if the zombies bit me, I'd die with foam coming out of my mouth and rise from the ground to stalk off to munch on some tasty brains._

_But it's not like that at all._

_It's....sadder, yeah. Quieter. In a way, it feels like the earth is mourning everyone who died in the war and that's why conditions right now suck so bad – because the earth is in mourning still. Maybe she'll come out of it soon, and life'll be grand again, but even if she doesn't, people are strong-willed things – especially my people, because they rule._

_For the last...nine? Nine or ten months, I've been wandering my country, visiting my states. A good amount of them lived, actually. Yeah, some of them were totally ruined – like New York, the poor kid. He always knew in the event of a apocalypse, he'd be the first to go – I think that's what made him be like he was – willing to take risks and laugh about it later. Florida died – she was a good kid, if noisy – and Illinois, South Dakota, North Dakota, and other oil-producing states got a lot of damage._

_But quite a few lived. Colorado, for starters – she has so many mountain towns that it'd be impossible to destroy them all, and she tributes her survival to them. Alaska, because everyone seems to forget about him, the poor kid, and Hawaii, because...well, I'm not actually sure why she survived, but she did. A few others – California, Oregon, Kentucky and more._

_American people are tough. Colorado's people were hoarding technology and setting up new Internet since the first sign of the war. She and her people built windmills for energy and created solar-panels. Her towns function perfectly well. Hawaii reverted back to the way she used to be, in a way – she used a solar panel to charge a cell phone enough to call Colorado to inform her that she was fine, she shouldn't worry about her, and promptly hung up._

_America is a land of resourceful people. It used to be more so – for the years before the war, it was getting shallow, beauty-obsessed, materialistic and flat. It took the world's biggest disaster to bring back that spark of life, the love invention and the will to survive that all my people used to always have._

_I've never been more proud of them._

_That will to survive in everyone now. I'm sure all the people left feel it. My nation is lucky – I have such a wide expanse of land that some cities were skipped over, and many of my people still have technology and electricity needed to run them. Here, not so much. We're lucky if it clears up enough to light a fire right now._

_I'm betting that in Africa, some of the cities were skipped over and still running things. I bet people all around the world are building windmills, making solar panels, digging hot springs, burning wood, in order to make energy. Oil is not accessible right now, and so many of the oil-and-coal-burning things – cars, factories, electricity plants – are either destroyed or not usable._

_So contrary to what many of the Nations believe, there is plenty of technology and energy left in the world – just not in, you know, England._

_Ha, that sounded **so**wrong._

_Anyway._

_People are strong, you know. Throw a brick in their face, and if it doesn't crush their skulls and mush their brain into the ground, they get stronger and learn not to trust you._

_...Maybe that wasn't the best example. Let me rephrased that._

_Drop a person into deep water, and they swim. Push them out of an airplane with a parachute, and hopefully they'll know when to pull the chord. Put them in a foreign country, and they'll figure out ways to communicate._

_Those examples aren't all that brilliant either, but do you get what I'm trying to get across?_

_People are strong-willed, tough, fighters. They will do anything to survive, and for the survival of their loved ones. I think that's part of the beauty of humanity – their ability to love, and to know what to do when it's needed._

_Or to at least have a vague idea about what to do. Some people are better at figuring things out than others, after all – and I am America, and therefore take all kinds!_

_But...I'm glad I found the Nations. I wandered around my land for a long time after the bombs stopped falling. I helped my people as if I was one of them. But after a while, Colorado and Oregon kicked me out of my own land – the little brats – and told me to "get my butt in gear and go find England, for fuck's sake."_

_The way they glared at me didn't leave much room for negotiation, so I left and went to Alaska's place. He gave me a boat and I sailed across to Russia – and god dammit, was that a bad voyage. Never doing something like that again._

_I wandered across Asia and Europe, not really sure where the other Nations were suppose to be. It kinda sucked – I was always cold and usually starving. I haven't lived off the land in ages, so I wasn't sure what I should be doing or not. Eventually, I ran into Turkey and Greece and that cute little island Nation – Madagascar, I think her name is – down by...Austria's place, I think. They told me to go to England's place, and they went on their way, heading to Africa._

_A little while – maybe two days later – I met up with Romano, Italy and Spain. Spain was limping pretty badly – he'd apparently tripped over a rock and twisted his ankle. Smart one. He also looked really weird without his hair, but I didn't want to mention it for fear of having Romano break my neck – he was going to if I said a word - with the way he was glaring at me, I just know it. Because I'm cool like that._

_Anyway, Romano told me to "get my ass" over to England before winter really set in. They were having a warm spell right then, so I took his advice and picked up the pace a bit._

_And now...I'm in the ruins of London. Didn't quite expect it to look the way it does. Bit of a shock, really. Arthur's been kinda stunned since I showed up – he's been glued to my side sometimes, and avoiding me completely at others. Right now, he's asleep next to me. He's drooling on my shoulder. It's gross, but I'm glad to have him back. I missed him._

_Anyway, I'm pretty sure things are going to get better from here on out. Germany was interested in how my people were getting energy, so he's directing a group – led by Prussia, because anything built by Prussia will be kick ass – to start on building a windmill and hooking it up to a generator. I'm not sure if it'll work, but hey, it's worth a shot._

_Man, I love life so much right now. I have my bro back – it was a bit of a surprise to learn that Matt's gone permanently blind in both eyes, because I thought it was just the one, but then again I haven't seen him since I picked him up off his floor and took him to a local doctor. I didn't stay around to wait for him to wake up, because Matt's tough, and Colorado had just called me with the news that New Jersey was quite possibly dying and I needed to be there._

_New Jersey died five minutes after I left Matt's place, but Colorado told me to keep coming on down for the funeral. And so I did. And then I stayed to help Colorado until she kicked me out and I went to visit California, and then Oregon._

_But I have my brother and Arthur back now. Life's pretty damn cool right now. Not great, but it's cool. Hopefully it'll get better, and it probably will. You know. There's always a silver lining._

_And now for my warning...do I really need to write one? I guess I will anyway. Remember that times change and you can't always stop them._

_But sometimes – and this is my blessing, just so you know – it's a good change. Sometimes, what you end up with is better than what you started with. To gain something, you have to be willing to let something else go._

_And now. To Matt – I missed you, bro! I'm really sorry about your eyes, but you're alive, and you have Francis (but there is no way in hell I'll let him do anything to you) and me and Arthur and a whole slew of other people to help you through this! Plus me. I count twice. Just because I am simply that awesome._

_And to Arthur – you're such a grumpy old man, but I love you anyway. I missed you!_

_And I gotta say, you have kick ass guitar skills. I didn't know you still played!_

_And now, I'll put this book down, and go help save the world once again. Because, hell, that's what the world needs me for._

_- America_

_----_

**Author's Note**

**Oh Alfred. Gotta say, this was the best entry to write. The most fun for me, at least. I was listening to happy music the whole time I was writing it, so it may have influenced it.**

AND THIS SERIES IS ALMOST OVER! Just the epilogue and we are _done_!

Yay. Bedtime now.


	18. Epilogue

It's been ten years, five months, two weeks and three days since America wrote his entry into the log – the very last entry, as Austria politely refused and Sweden just stared at them when asked and Norway threatened to kill them all if they didn't go away right then and leave him alone and Denmark just laughed and said no and wouldn't say another word about it.

It's been about ten years, six months, one week and two days since Spain, Romano and Italy left for Africa. It's been ten years, six months, one week and three days since Turkey, Greece and Madagascar started on their twenty-four hour head start to Africa.

It's been ten and a half years since anyone heard from them, those ones that left so long ago for such a faraway land. Ten and a half years of struggling to survive and rebuild the world, ten and a half years of trying to recover what they had lost.

Prussia can hardly believe it's been so long. He's been spending the last three or four months – he's lost count, because the monotony melts the days together until he can hardly remember what time of year it is – on horseback, heading down to Africa to find Italy, Romano and the others. So much has changed in ten years. There so much they had missed out on.

The horse huffs softly and shakes his head. Flies buzz around them. It's hot and dry, and Prussia is feeling incredibly grateful France made him bring a stupidly wide-brimmed hat. Prussia can feel his horse breathing heavily, and wishes he had more water. They're nearing the village that Greece, Turkey and the others were suppose to be staying at.

The horse whines again. Prussia leans down and pats his side, whispering, "Hush, Ago. We should be there soon."

Italy called once, three years ago. Prussia and Germany had only just figured out how to charge phones and get them to make calls again when Italy's came. Africa hadn't been attacked as badly as they had thought, he'd said. He'd given directions to where he and the others were staying, and then the phone battery frizzled out and died as he tried to say something more.

Germany had wanted to leave right away, but it had been the dead of winter and the six horses they had were suffering from some disease, and so they hadn't been able to go then. The year after, there had been a fire that destroyed nine of the fifty newly made houses, and they had had to rebuild them. And the year after, America had fallen ill as thousands of his people died and England had refused to let anyone leave until he was better.

Germany wanted to leave this year. Everyone was healthy, their homes were safe, everyone had enough food. And then he broke his right leg, two fingers and his wrist while helping to start construction on the library by falling from his perch atop the wall they were building. Prussia tried to catch him. His hand hit a stack of bricks instead.

Germany refused to not let no one leave for Africa this year, so Prussia took his brother's place and embarked on the long, dangerous solo journey to Ethiopia. Honestly, he couldn't understand his brother's reasoning for wanting to do this. He'd been forced to trudge through icy rain and boiling sunshine, gone days without food and nearly a week with only an hour's sleep per night.

But he was almost there.

The ground was dusty underfoot, and every step Ago take send up a cloud of dirt around the horse's filthy hooves. The sunshine beats mercilessly down, and the few trees surrounding the trail look like all the water had been sucked out of them and with one touch could crumble into dust.

Prussia's tired eyes scans the dry earth as he pats Ago's side as the horse lumbers onwards. "_Mein Gott_," he murmurs, "I have to question why they decided to come here."

"Because it's better than what we left behind," a clear voice calls out, and Prussia straightens up, one hand drifting down to the dagger sheathed at his hip.

"Hey," the voice continues in a almost lecturing tone. "Don't go threatening me! Greece sent me out to be on lookout, and I see you and decide I can offer you some of my water, and that's how you repay me?" Prussia almost recognizes this voice. Feminine, with a rough, wild edge to it, it's familiar and yet so strange, but he knows the speaker.

His lips twitch into a grin. His hand falls away from his knife. "Alright, Madagascar. You got me. Now where's this water you were mentioning?"

A head peeks out from the tall grass, dark eyes seeking Prussia's own lighter ones. Madagascar has changed very little over the last ten years. She is taller, but only slightly. Her hair has been woven into a thousand tight braids, pulled back into a ponytail at the base of her neck. Eyes so dark a brown that they appeared to be pure black sparkle with laughter instead of being glazed over with exhaustion and sadness, the way they had been the last time Prussia had seen her.

She's wearing a light cotton dress, painted with designs of a spiky, lime-green plant. Her grin reeks of mischief and the knowledge that this is her territory, and if she wanted to disappear, Prussia would have no way to be able to track her.

"Italy's given up hope that anyone was ever going to come," she says, cocking her head to the side. A single braid falls in front of her dark eyes. "And now it's you who's here. I was expecting Germany, or maybe France, or even Japan. But not you, Prussia. Did something happen?"

Prussia sits up straighter and tries to sneer at the smaller Nation from his position on Ago's back. "Nah. Germany just broke some bones, France was off in lovey-dovey land with Canada, and Japan and China were too busy getting ready to visit their own lands. So it was up to me! Because I'm the only one awesome enough to even attempt that horribly stupid journey, of course."

Madagascar's grin grows. "Are you thirsty?"

"Oh hell yeah. And I'm starving. Ago here's about to pass out from the heat." Madagascar pads over to them and places her hand on Ago's flank.

"Ah. He hasn't had anything to drink lately," she murmurs. "You're lucky that the village is only a mile away from here. Follow me." She spins on her heel and strides off through the long grass, away from the beaten trail. Prussia clicks his tongue, and Ago obediently starts off after her.

"Why're we going this way?" Prussia calls. Madagascar picks up her pace a bit, and Prussia has to force Ago into a swift trot to catch up with her. "Well? Is there a reason for leaving the trail?" he demands as Madagascar leads them farther and farther away from the trail and through the thick, dry golden grass.

She replies without looking at him. "This way is shorter. Greece and Turkey designed that road so it takes an extra three miles to reach the village if you stick to it. It gives Romano and Japera a chance to decide if the traveler is a threat or not. Our village has been targeted several times within the last few years – we have working electricity, running water, even a computer, even though all we can do with it is keep track of the number of cattle we have. A tribe from Kenya's been after what we have for almost six years now. We'd give them information on how to make it themselves if they hadn't tried to kill us."

"Who's Japera?" Prussia interrupts. Madagascar lets out a breathy snort. Her breathing is beginning to become labored. She's jogging by this point, and Ago is in a slow trot next to her.

"Japera is sort of like the village leader," she puffs out as she turns slightly to the left and continues to run through the long grass. Prussia can see a group of trees on the horizons, slowly drawing nearer. "Everyone goes to her for advice," Madagascar continues, "And she's the one who decided we shouldn't release our secrets to the tribe from Kenya. Don't get on her bad side, Prussia – she's strong, determined, and not afraid to use force on people who don't cooperate."

"She sounds like Hungary," Prussia mutters. His heart throbs painfully. _Cold ground dead flowers bloody hands broken face oh god this isn't really her, why is this happening _- "A lot like her."

Madagascar lets out a dry laugh. "I don't remember much of Hungary, but Japera is very similar to what I can recall. Strong-willed. Passionate. Hot tempered and fiery. Don't upset her, Prussia, and she'll do nothing to hurt you. Spain's told her how much she resembles Hungary, and how much she meant to you."

Prussia doesn't reply. Madagascar sighs and adds on a little speed. She and Prussia cover the last bit without talking.

As they near the green trees, her pace slows and Prussia pulls Ago to a halt. The forest ahead of them look thick and intimidating.

"Why is there this deep a forest in such a dry place?" Prussia asks, staring into the foliage as Madagascar pushes some vines and overhanging branches out of the way.

"Irrigation," she replies, pushing a log out of the way to revel a worn-down dirt path. "And Spain happens to be quite talented with gardening. You might want to get off your horse for this next part; it's not a easy trail."

Prussia dismounts Ago and takes the reins, guiding his horse to follow Madagascar down the hidden trail. Sticks poke into him; the forest is very close to the thin trail they are walking on. The air reeks of decomposing leaves and wood, rich earth and fresh water. Prussia has long since grown used to the conditions of England, and the oppressing heat and the rich smells seem almost foreign to him.

Madagascar leads him down the path for what seemed like hours, but Prussia has no way of telling how much time really has passed. Birds call and some animal shrieks, and in the distance, he can make out the faint babble of human voices.

Madagascar pushes one land branch out of the way, and Prussia steps into a huge clearing, filled with buildings and bustling people rushing around. There's a small pond set on one side, and a cluster of buildings made from mud, logs and stone. A solar panel sits on the edge of the clearing, aimed up to face the hot sun, and a waterwheel is set into the small stream leading away from the clearing.

People call out to one another and rush here and there with baskets and pots and woven cloth. Children laugh and scream and chase each other around. Madagascar stops to greet an old women weaving a basket from reeds before leading Prussia to the biggest mud building. He hands Ago off to an eager looking boy and his friend who Madagascar says will do nothing to harm Ago, and follows the younger Nation into the building.

Greece is standing just inside, mulling over a worn, dusty book by the light trickling in through the open window behind him. His hair is longer; reaching down into the middle of his back, and a much lighter shade of brown, and his face is sharper, cheeks bones more visible. Scrawny and lean, he radiates calm and his eyes are carefully guarded. He does a double take when Prussia enters the shade of the house, and he shuts the book slowly, placing it on the elaborately carved table next to him.

"Prussia," he says, and there is a touch of surprise to his voice, "It's been a while."

Prussia grins cheekily at him, hands on his hips. Madagascar takes this moment to slip out of the room and through the doorway on the far side, leading deeper into the building.

"You haven't seen or talked to me in over ten years, and all you can say is it's been a while?" Prussia asks, taking a few steps forward so he's less than three feet from the other Nation. "Oh well. You're looking good, Greece. Living here's been kind to you, I see."

"More or less," Greece replies, looking Prussia up and down. "There's been droughts and some fires, but overall it's been good. You're looking better, too – like you're not about to keel over, which is what you looked like the last time I saw you."

Prussia laughs heartily and reaches forward to clap Greece on the shoulder. "I look like a wreck and I know it, Greece. Don't bother being nice about it."

Greece scowls and opens his mouth to say something as a red and brown blur flies into the room, and Romano's fist hits Prussia's unprotected stomach, sending him flying backwards and onto the dusty floor.

Romano stands in front of him, green eyes narrowed to thin slits. His hair has grown as well, and hangs down his back, pulled into a long ponytail, and it gleams copper under the dim light leaking in through the windows. More wiry than ever before, he looks as if he is filled with nervous energy. The red shirt and brown trousers he wears sag on his thin frame.

Greece rubs at his temples. "Romano, he just got here. Couldn't you at least wait until he was relaxed to beat him up."

"Hell no," Romano snaps back, still glaring at Prussia. "Hey, bastard. Ten years, huh? Any news from the north?"

Prussia still can't breathe probably, and he chuckles drily as he massages his aching stomach. "Y-you haven't ch-changed a bit, Romano," he mutters with a thin smile as he struggles back to his feet. His world spins and vision darkens for a moment; Romano has gotten stronger since he last saw him.

"Ah, Romano, did you hit him?" Another voice joins in, and Spain's concerned face appears in Prussia's view, dark green eyes worried. "Sorry about that, Prussia. I think he's angry that it took you guys so long to get here. Is it just you, or are there more?"

Spain has changed the least of those Prussia has seen so far. More lines around his eyes, his dark curly hair has grown back, but that is all. Prussia grins up at his friend.

"Just me," he replies, taking Spain's offered hand. "France wanted to come, but didn't, and Germany broke some bones so he couldn't do it. Japan and China are heading east and might stop down here, but that'll be next year, most likely."

He hears Romano swearing at him, and Spain turns away from his old friend with a smile to say, "_Déjelo reclinarse; él ha viajado una manera larga._" Prussia can't understand what Spain has said, but Romano gives him another angry stare and falls silent.

Spain faces him again with a small smile on his face, eyes warm and affectionate. "It's been a long time. I would've come to see you years ago, but my body still isn't up for long trips."

"Still sick?" Prussia asks, looking Spain up and down. He seems healthy enough. Spain chuckles and shrugs his shoulders.

"I get tired easily," he tells him, "And if I spend too long in the sun, I get horrible headaches. Ah, but that is life. And how have you been, _mi amigo_?"

"Fine until your little boyfriend over there hit me with a fucking nuke."

"Spain is not my boyfriend, you motherfuck-" Romano starts, but is cut short as a dark hand rams into the back of his head, sending him toppling forward onto the floor. A dark-eyed, muscular woman is eying the Nation on the ground with one eyebrow raised, one hand still in the air karate-chop style, the other bunched into a fist at her hip.

"I told you to stop swearing, my dear," she says, and her eyes flicker up to meet Prussia's.

Prussia, for a moment, cannot breathe. The woman in front of him is a carbon copy of Hungary, only with dark skin and hair and eyes. Her long, thick black hair is wavy and there is a flower tucked behind her ear, just like Hungary. She is muscular and her dark eyes burn with the same kind of fire Hungary's had, and there is the same determined set to her mouth as Hungary.

_Mein Gott_, Prussia thinks, _Madagascar wasn't lying when she said they were similar._

"My name is Japera," the dark Hungary says, "Welcome to the village. And you are Prussia?" Prussia nods, struck dumb. Japera doesn't seem to notice as she kneels to scold Romano.

Spain, grinning, leans over and whispers in Prussia's ear, "She looks identical, doesn't she? She's her twin in temperament as well."

"It's almost like she's back from the dead," Another voice joins in, and Prussia whips around to see Turkey grinning at him. His hair has gotten long and turned into dreadlocks, and he's tied them back with a piece of crimson cloth. His muscles bulge under his dirt-and-mud stained t-shirt. "She hits just like her too. Good to see you, by the way, Prussia. Spain, might wanna stop her before she hits Romano again or he might seriously die this time."

Spain turns around to see Romano swearing at Japera and Japera's hand raising up to whack him again, and he darted off to rescue the other Nation from the woman's wrath as Turkey snorts, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand as he examines Prussia.

"Bit on the scrawny side, but overall you look a hell of a lot better," he says, and then leaves to go speak to the irritated Greece, leaving bemused Prussia behind who is content to view the chaos taking place in front of him. Japera and Spain are arguing, Romano has long since slunk out of the room, Greece and Turkey are conversing in quiet voices.

_Just like old times. _Prussia's cheeks are beginning to hurt from grinning so hard.

Spain is trying to shove himself into a corner to escape from a furious Japera when a cheerful Italy skips into the room with a basket full of some kind of vegetable. Italy, like his brother, has let his hair grow, but has braided it and it twists in the air behind him. He doesn't notice Prussia and breezes on by, singing to himself in Italian, his voice barely able to be heard over the sound of Japera and Spain's argument. He floats through the doorway and disappears deeper into the house.

Madagascar slips up to Prussia's side as the elder watches Italy pass and she tugs gently on his torn shirt sleeve. Prussia's gaze turns to hers, and she smiles widely. "Want me to show you the village? Romano'll probably cook you a really tasty dinner, because no matter what he says or acts like, he's really happy to see you."

"Could've fooled me," Prussia mutters venomously, rubbing at his still aching stomach. The skin'll be turning some beautiful shades of blue and black by this time tomorrow, he just knows it. And he'd always made fun of the Italy twins for being so weak.

Madagascar laughs and waves her hand dismissively. "He's always like that. You should know that by now – you've known him centuries longer than I have, I'm sure." Prussia is not sure he likes that mischievous, almost evil glint to her smile. His eyes drift upwards and fall on Japera again. She has taken Spain by the shoulders and is shaking him violently. Madagascar, confused momentarily, follows his gaze. When she sees who he is looking at, her grin widens.

"She'll be here when you get back," she says, looking at him slyly, dark eyes glinting with silent laughter. "She's very interested in talking to you – Spain tells her a lot about you. But don't you want a tour of the village for now?"

Nodding slowly, Prussia allows Madagascar to take him by the hand and lead him out into the bright summer sunshine.

----

The arguments seemed to have died down by the time Madagascar takes him back to the house, late in the evening when the sun is just beginning to set and the sky looks like someone dropped a thousand paint buckets onto it and allowed the colors to run out. She leads him through the house, heading to a room in the back which Prussia guesses must be the kitchen, if the rich smells pouring from it are indication.

The room is brightly lit by a oil lamp – burning with olive oil, Madagascar told him, they had a surplus of it shipped from a city that still was able to produce it – and Romano is using a wood-burning stove to heat up soup as he stirs in some delicious smelling herb. Japera is sitting at the table set in the corner, reading a hardcover book. Her flicker up to meet Prussia's as he enters the room, and she sets down the book, gesturing from Prussia to join her as Madagascar goes to help Romano with the last few dinner things.

Prussia hesitantly takes the seat directly across from Japera, trying to avoid looking straight at her without making it too obvious that he is doing so. It's so strange to see a woman with a face so much like Hungary's, with the same fire and life and light burning in the eyes. It makes his tongue tie itself into knots and his stomach flip as Japera gives him the same shit-eating grin Hungary would always give him when she knew she was the one in the control.

"We didn't have a chance to talk for real earlier," she says. "So you're Prussia?" Prussia nods dumbly. "As I told you earlier, I'm Japera, unofficial leader of this village. Is it true I look like a Nation?" Prussia nods again, and Japera's eyes drop down to the tabletop. "Spain and the others have told me much about Hungary and your loss. What is it like, up north?"

Prussia gladly takes this invitation to talk, and tells Japera most everything that happened to the northern Nations within the last ten years. Japera is kind and has a sweet laugh and that same sarcastic commentary as Hungary did, and Prussia feels like Hungary really has returned from the grave and is sitting in front of him, with that wicked looking grin and her hand inching towards her book – the nearest blunt object to her.

When dinner is called and they gather around the table, Prussia moves to sit next to Japera. Italy, seeing him for the first time that day, lets out a delighted shrill squeal and dive-hugs him before slipping into the seat next to Prussia, talking a mile a minute, asking about Germany and how he is and did America find them and was France treating Canada better – so many questions that Prussia can hardly keep up, and his head is spinning by the time Italy finally runs out of breath and stares expectantly at him.

It's so funny, how he can recount what happened in so many years in just a few minutes. Within half an hour, all of the Nations plus Japera know what's been happening up north, what happened to various people, why they hadn't come to see them sooner.

Italy's face never falls, but his eyes turn horrified when Prussia recounts his brother's accident and his hand flies up to cover his lips. Romano is falling asleep in the corner, his head on Spain's shoulder as Turkey and Greece discuss possibly establishing a trading route with the northern Nations.

Italy looks no too different than the way he did ten years ago. He is more cheerful, and the life is back in her eyes. There is still some sadness there, however – the same sadness that Prussia sees in his brother's eyes whenever someone brings up Italy. Italy misses Germany, just like Germany misses Italy.

_They're both bloody morons._

But that fact is something he can sort out later. He will be staying here for three months – and he will do what he can to convince Italy to visit Germany, learn of how they managed to get electricity, and get to know Japera better.

"Hey," he says suddenly, and all conversation dies down as all eyes turn to face him. Prussia smiles, sadly, tiredly. He's missed these guys. "Do you guys know how lucky we really are?"

Spain lets out a short bark of laughter as he strokes the sleepy Romano's head. "Prussia, my dear friend," he says, "I know exactly how lucky we are. We're so lucky that it feels almost criminal. We're alive, we have friends and family, we have great futures ahead of us."

"I agree," Turkey says, raising his mug of water and inclining his head to Spain with a cheeky grin plastered on his sunburnt face. "Man, I can't say how many times I give thanks every day for what I have." His hand flies out and pokes Greece in the side as he speaks, and the other yelps and whacks him back, but Turkey only chortles and takes another gulp from his mug.

Madagascar only inclines her head with a smile to Prussia's words, and Italy nods enthusiastically. "We are so lucky!" he says, grinning with that thousand watt grin of his, "Sometimes I think God is being nice to us now to make up for the hell he put us through with the war and the aftermath."

Japera makes a noise of agreements as she stands up to gather the plates. "Life is good," she says as she places the dishes in a bucket by the stove – they will be washed in the morning. "Life is very good to all of us." Prussia finds he can not agree more.

A breeze blows in through the window, and it smells of earth and new life. Prussia closes his eyes and tilts his head back and gives himself a moment to enjoy it and where he is now.

"So lucky," he whispers to himself. No one else hears it, as they have all started up their conversations again. But it doesn't matter, because he's here with them now and everyone's alright and life is pretty damned good for once.

Prussia smiles, and gives thanks.

-----

Thousands of miles away, three hours later – in Africa, Prussia and the others are already in bed - Germany sits in front of his fireplace, warming his hands by the dancing flames in front of him. His house is silent – he shares it with his brother, who is traveling to Africa, and Japan and China, who left last week for Asia. Austria stays there as well, but he fell asleep hours ago, and now Germany is the only one awake.

His leg and wrist healed months ago, even though he rebroke his finger by crushing it while trying to help a man repair his house. The finger splint is awkward and annoying. He wishes he could have left with his brother, but at the same time, he is grateful he couldn't. He's afraid to see Italy again, see how he's changed and how he's moved on into a life where Germany isn't needed to play a center part.

"Fuck it," he whispers, standing up and cracking his neck, "I'm not getting anywhere with thoughts like this." He turns to head to his bedroom, leaving the fire to die down behind him. The house is eerily silent, and Germany, for what is most likely the billionth time, wishes Italy is there to fill it with his laughter and talk.

But he's not there. He's not anywhere close to being there. Italy chose to leave him, possibly for good reasons, but that still doesn't still the ache in his chest. He knows he should give thanks for what he has, but he really does miss Italy, and now that Japan, his only other real friend is also traveling to a place thousands of miles away from him.

With a sigh, Germany falls face-first onto his bed, burying his face in his worn pillow. It's better than it was ten years ago, but not everything is okay.

Germany's eyes drift shut, and he slowly lets himself fall asleep.

And the night is silent once more.

----

**Author's Note**

**And that's all, folks!**

I cannot believe I finished this. Been...six months, I think? Yeah, 'bout six.

Now, don't ask about Japera. Totally last minute because I thought she would be interesting. And I gave Madagascar a speaking part because she did diddly for the majority of the story.

Quick note - Japera is about 28 years old, Madagascar is 12.

And I love the image of Turkey with dreadlocks, so that's why that was thrown in.

**Quick question - I have a idea for a sequel. How many of you would be interested? It'd be more action packed than the Log.**

And thank you all for reading and sticking with me this long. You've all been great. I hope you liked the ending, and please tell me what you thought of it.


	19. Sequel NoticeRewinding Utopia

Hey guys! Since so many people were interested in a sequel, I wrote one and put up the prologue for it. It's called _Rewinding Utopia, _so if you liked the Log, keep an eye out for _Rewind._


	20. Sweden

Sweden says no every time Germany asks him if he will finally write in the log.

It isn't that the log is a bad idea – actually, Sweden quite likes the thought of preserving something for the future generations. It gives everyone else something to work for; to make sure those future generations will have a chance to read it. The log makes Prussia spend hours finding still-whole bricks they can use to rebuild homes. The log has Austria digging 'til his hands drip crimson. The log needles America into not boasting and finally accomplishing something beyond swelling his head up even more so.

But if Sweden puts pen to paper, and gives form to his thoughts, he know what will come out. He can't let it come out, either – it's painful, very much so that he wants to banish it to the back of his mind and never think of it again.

_Finland's dead_.

That reminder hits him after a day's hard work, when he's heading back to the Nations' shared underground room, and the sky is painted scarlet red and brilliant orange. He glances behind him for Finland, to see his large amaranthine eyes shining with the wonder of a gorgeous sunset amongst all this destruction, before he remembers that this destruction took Finland away too.

Finland's not there in the evenings to stargaze with, either. Sweden leans back on a ruined chimney some nights, staring up at the endless expanse of night studded with glittering stars and the crowning jewel of the silver moon, but the lack of Finland jittering his leg up and down besides him as the smaller Nation recites myths about the constellations to himself drives him to distraction, so he heads back inside to the cold warmth of the other Nations.

Finland can't show him some stupid invention he's come up with on the spot, either. No automatic table clearers that end up smashing anything on a flat surface. No memo-delivers that shred the memos before they can reach their intended. No martial-arts training machines that end up beating prospective students into the ground. Sweden used to despise Finland's wacky machines, but now, he can't help but wish he'd find Finland somewhere, grease smeared across his cheeks and nose wrinkled up as he concentrated, screwing the last metal plate onto something that would just end up creating havoc and mayhem.

Germany can't expect that his tiny, tattered book could hold all of the grief Sweden feels, or the agony he is reminded of every time he remembers that Finland is gone, gone, gone – gone to a place where Sweden can't yet go to, a far-away land that is beyond his reach.

* * *

His hands are dripping with blood again, and the slickness makes it difficult to grip his shovel. The pain grounds him, though, so he's caught – should he wrap his hands so he can finish his job, or have this steady ache there to distract him from dwelling in the past?

China's giving his hands a horrified look, amber eyes wide with sympathy, so Sweden figures he might as well try to get them bandaged. He drops his shovel and the metal echoes with a sharp clang as it strikes a stone on its way down.

China's already pulling out some off-white wrappings, and Sweden silently obeys when China orders, "Get over here and sit down so I can fix that for you." The rubble beneath him is cold, unforgiving – he has to sit completely straight to feel even remotely comfortable, perched on a sharp-edged boulder as he is. His lower back pulses with his slow heartbeat; agony so strong it fades everything else to numbness.

"Oh Sweden..." China murmurs as he winds strips of scratchy bandages around his fingers, "You've got to take better care of yourself. What would Finland say if he saw you in this state?" His normally sharp eyes miss the way Sweden's fingers curl in, his sudden inhalation. China, ever the silent observer, misses it, and Sweden feels that if China is missing something so obvious, no one else will ever see it.

China only glances up when he doesn't reply. Sweden's staring down unseeingly at his wrapped hand, remembering days in the past when he had still been a world power, when Finland was there to bandage him up and cheer for him when he came home after a bloody battle. Finland's hands were rougher than China's, gentled by affection, hardened by years of fights and work. He misses Finland's scarred, broken hands.

"Sweden," China says, adding a commanding bite to his tone, "Are you alright?"

Sweden blinks, and slowly recalls that this is the present and living in the past will only break his heart further. He slowly nods his head, long blonde hair rasping against his glasses. In the last few months, he's noticed strands of pure silver appearing among the gold. Nations are not suppose to age to the point of appearing middle-aged, but then again, Nations are not suppose to die.

China contemplates him for a moment longer, pursing his narrow lips. Long black hair hangs around his gaunt face, making his golden eyes gleam all the brighter in the gloom of the overcast, gray day. "If you're sure..." he says reluctantly before turning back to his own shovel.

Sweden sits there an instant longer, studying his white-wrapped hands. It starts to drizzle; the rain is cool and fine, not pounding down hard enough to soak but just enough to chill him to the bone. He likes the ache in his hands, the arctic bite of the rain. It's distracting him from dwelling on Finland.

He heaves himself back up to his feet with a sigh and grabs his shovel again. His hands start to bleed again, dripping scarlet through the bandages, and he starts to dig once more.

* * *

Sweden wonders why on earth the others thought it would be a good idea to let America cook. He's overcooked their black bean soup, and now the vegetables are falling apart into unappetizing clumps. The chicken – slaughtered from Germany's flock; they'd traded with a group in Spain for their original three birds and now had over fifty – has been burned and mashed. America presides over his monstrosity with an enormous grin, calling, "Come and get it!"

Most of them hesitantly take a serving and poke at it with their spoons for a moment, looking nervous. Austria wrinkles his nose and waves the smell emanating from his bowl away from his face. Even Prussia, with his much-boasted of stomach of steel, looks wary as he accepts half of his normal amount of food.

It wasn't like Finland was a brilliant cook, either, but he didn't burn things and tried to use the best vegetables and grains he could. Sweden hadn't been found of his blood pancakes, nor his prune rolls, but he did like Finland's Finnish Trifle and salmon soup. Sweden wonders if seeing one of Finland's favorite dishes would be worth it right now. It would probably only drive the knife in his heart in still further.

He takes a sip of the soup. It tastes like burnt meat and watered-down spices; he's had worse, but America's soup isn't really all that appealing. He notices China eying him again, so he gulps down a bit more until the Asian Nation looks away, and then he pours the remainder on the ground.

"Bah, that silly American knows nothing about cooking," France grumbles next to Sweden as he assists Canada to a flat rock. Canada's one eye is milky and far away, but he cocks his head and stares right at France's face with uncanny accuracy.

"His food doesn't smell that good," he comments, brushing some strands of wavy gold away from his eyepatch as France directs him to sit, before handing him a bowl half-filled with the horror of soup.

"Be thankful you can't see it," France mutters, poking at a lump of chicken with his spoon, looking vaguely disgusted. His nose is crinkled up, lip curling back to reveal somewhat yellow teeth. "I think I'm not hungry any more."

Canada takes a careful sip and winces at the taste. "Eat it anyway," he says, his expression morphing to match France's; twin looks of repulsion. "Just cook tomorrow, 'kay?"

Sweden watches their quiet conversation, fighting down his twinge of bitterness. He misses Finland so much sometimes; having someone there to make him eat terrible food, to complain with, to gently tease. He knows it is wrong to envy France and Canada their half-happiness, their stop on their way to something more, but he can't help it. He sees him and Finland in their places, and he can't push down the anger and sadness he feels.

France and Canada don't notice when he slips away from the group, determined to find somewhere to mope by himself.

* * *

Sweden knows the years are passing. The memory of the war becomes less with every day, although some things bring flashes of it back, and having food is still a constant worry, and so is fighting disease, but they're doing better.

They farm now. Potatoes are suitable for England's climate, and wheat. Germany traded for some cows when some Portuguese people came north to investigate the state of the Nations there, and China and Japan brought back goats the last time they went home to their own lands. Fruits' hard to get occasionally, but Germany and Sweden try and build up contracts with the people who live further south to see if they can work something out.

Homes are being built, too – they're finishing the last few buildings now in their small village. They've even built a community building for everyone to gather – to read books, to play music, to be. The houses are primitive and remind Sweden of the ones his people built during the age of Vikings, but it is shelter and now he finally has a place to call home again.

But there is still the dull ache of not having Finland there. He still searches for him on the evenings when the sunset is gorgeous, and can't watch the stars for the lack of Finland by his side. He misses the crazy inventions and the strange food, the rough hands tempered by gentleness.

Life is better now, but Sweden isn't.

He doesn't know if he ever will be.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**A thousand thanks to rennskye, the best beta ever who makes these stories millions of times better.**

**Yes, this is part of the Log series.**

**Written because:**  
**- I absolutely hate writing Sweden so I needed the practice.**  
**- People keep asking what the hell happened to Sweden/Lithuania/Austria and here's at least one-third of that**

**No, I have no idea if I'll write for Lithuania in this universe. Sweden was sorta written on a whim and coffee fumes. So, maybe. I do have a list of requests I'm slowly battling through, though. Argh, I need to go start on Onii-chan's request...**


	21. Lithuania

His hands are trembling.

He is used to it by now; they tremble all the time. From the cold, from the hunger, from the grief. There hasn't been a day in months that had passed without his hands shaking like leaves. But his hands are trembling, and it makes it difficult to wrap the dark green threadbare scarf around his neck and jam his hands into his worn gloves.

Lithuania rolls up his sleeping bag slowly, stuffing it into his knapsack. Stiff snow cracks under his heavy boots as he stands, pulling his bag onto his back over his bulky winter coat. His breath fans out around his face like a cloud as he pushes long, greasy hair away from his face so he can study the thick undergrowth of pine trees surrounding him.

He knows he is going the right way; he feels drawn like iron to a magnet to his homeland. But he still has no idea where he is, only that he is in some forgotten forest in the middle of winter and he hasn't eaten in two days because he ran out of canned food.

The forest is much too silent, much to still. It's winter, so of course it is suppose to be peaceful and quiet, but not like this. Lithuania feels like everything in the world has died except for him. It's a fitting feeling, considering most of the world is dead. Not everyone, but enough to consider every nation in the world as a developing country.

Lithuania hasn't felt this trapped by the forces of nature in centuries. He really doesn't like the feeling of his life depending on the whim of the weather, the rain from the sky or the wind over the mountains. He stomps through the crisp snow, taking a pathetic amount of delight in the way it breaks apart under his feet. Small victories; he takes them where he can.

"_Geez, like, why the hell are we doing this, Liet? I mean, like, there's snow on my boots! And this is the new collection – I just got them from Italy, so, like, we'd better be close because these shoes sure as hell weren't meant to take this kind of abuse and – hey, are you even listening to me?"_

"Don't whine, Poland," he snaps before he can stop himself, and suddenly he is grateful he is alone, that no one is there to hear him talk to dead people. His breath shudders as he inhales, and the chill burns in his lungs.

"I'm going crazy," he mutters, shaking his head and slapping a overhanging branch out of his way. "Talking to dead people, talking to myself, wandering the wilderness without food in the middle of winter...what the hell was I thinking when I left?"

England had been too painful. Most everyone else had someone they'd cared about. Lithuania was alone, and while he tried not to be bitter, bile still rose when Prussia and Austria ran to hug each other and when France watched Canada from across the room with fondness in his eyes. This kind of anger, this kind of sadness, does not suit him, and he knew it, and so had left before it poisoned him.

He'd been by himself for only a few days when Russia's voice would drift into his dreams, when Latvia's nervous giggle would hang on the breeze as he climbed mountains, when Ukraine's tears were what fell from the sky instead of rain. His longing to see them built up like trash in a river, slowly killing him from the inside out.

Poland's voice spoke to him most often – snippets of conversations they'd once had, little soundbites from their lives. He hated how his grief gave his memories voice, hated how they reinforced the fact that Poland was gone, gone, gone and all he'd ever have of him now were these few words drifting on the breeze.

He sings to himself so the voices can't reach him, faded words from a faded time. Mainly he sings the pop songs from America; they are catchy and stay in his head, drowning out most everything else so he doesn't need to think of anything but the inanity of the lyrics. So he starts to hum Beyonce under his breath, driving all thoughts of Poland and bright crimson blood steaming in the snow from his mind.

...

His voice only trails off when he is certain that his ghosts won't be speaking to him. A spraying of pale pink, light lavender and bright orange across the sky signify that night is coming fast, and he needs to move efficiently to have his camp set up soon so he doesn't freeze to death stumbling around in the dark.

He scrambles, moving faster than he had before, trying to find a inclosed area in this vast forest where he won't lose too much body heat to the elements. He finally finds a natural snow cave built from the drift the wind had pushed onto the base of a broad pine tree and concludes it'll suffice for the night.

He throws his tarp down first, then his sleeping bag on top of it. His hands are shaking harder than normal as he digs through his pack, taking out some reusable small-space heaters Germany had forced onto him before he left to make sure he was at least warm. He shakes them gently, then scatters them throughout his sleeping bag. He can ensure he won''t freeze to death, although starving was still in the running – he'd hiked all day and still hadn't found any food.

He shoves his gloves back onto his hands so he doesn't need to see them trembling and then need to remember why they are trembling. He pokes his head out of his makeshift home, glances around. The colors painting the sky re growing steadily more dramatic; night is fast approaching. Lithuania huffs and retreats to his shelter to find his flashlight and the worn novel in his bag, one he's read a thousand times on this trip now.

The sky continues to darken, and as it steadily grows colder, Lithuania tries not to remember where he would be had the war never happened.

...

Two more days have passed by the time the trees begin to thin, and suddenly he is at the edge of a plain, staring at the far-away silhouette of a city. It'll be a dead one, of course. If he has wandered this far and seen no one, then the city is dead. He knows it isn't his city; he still feels the magnetic pull in his heart drawing him home; it'll only stop once he's crossed his borders.

The grass is bent over by the heavy, thick snow. It glitters in the harsh noon light, and Lithuania wishes he had a pair of sunglasses. Snow blindness really isn't something he thinks he could deal with just now.

He begins his trek across the field, moving slowly because he lacks snowshoes and his boots are weighty, sinking him down into the snow. It's winder on the field than it was in the forest, and he keeps hearing Russia's uproarious laughter ringing in the busy air, Latvia's nervous chuckle as snow spray splatters against his coat.

"_Hey Liet, when we get home, you should totally make me some hot chocolate 'cause it's, like, freezing out here and I can't feel my toes and ohmigod I could kill for a cup of chocolate now."_

He wishes he had some hot chocolate. Or maybe a warm glass of his favorite mint tea. Even a glass of boiling water would be nice; it would melt his frozen insides and let him feel like he isn't dying both mentally and physically.

The sun climbs higher in the sky. Lithuania chances a glance at the dead city ahead of him. It still looks as far away as it did when he left the forest, even though he has been walking for the better part of a day. He wants to make it there before nightfall though; spending the evening on this wide-open field could kill him as there is no shelter and the temperature will drop. He walks faster, leaving a trench of his footsteps behind him in his haste.

...

The sky is beginning to darken to a rich shade of indigo by the time he reaches the edge of the city. A building on the very edge of town is a charred ruin, blackened by the heat of the bomb that must have destroyed it. Bricks and shards of glass litter the streets, and even though it will have to be a huge piece of debris to break through his thick boots he decides to be wary and skirts around the rubble.

Lithuania wanders down a street, studying the hulking ruins of buildings and homes. Some are in terrible shape, falling apart and breaking before his very eyes. Some look decent, but Lithuania suspects that their abandonment will mean that they are fading into chaos internally, even if their outsides look fine.

He stays to the limits of the city; he's found that it is usually the inner homes and buildings are the ones that have been hit the heaviest. The temperature is dropping and the wind is picking up, so he has to find shelter soon. His footsteps beat out a harried rhythm as he scurries through the ruined streets.

He finally finds a home at the northwestern most point of town, a pink one with creamy trim and what must once have been a gorgeous garden. The roof is falling in and the porch steps have collapsed, but the walls are sturdy when he bangs his fist against them and the door is still on its hinges, unless the last home he stayed a night in, although it creeks loudly as he pushes it open.

The inside is in fairly neat and tidy; most of the furniture looks like it'll hold. It's all done in tasteful shades of chocolate brown and very pale pink. Lithuania drops his pack on the floor of the kitchen, cracking his neck as he heads towards the pantry.

There's five cans of instant soup, some cereal that hasn't quite reached its expiration date, some freeze-dried fruits and a few energy bars. Score.

Lithuania eats everything but three of the cans of soup and two energy bars. His stomach aches with the sudden weight of food after days of nothing but some snow. This is probably the closest he's been to happiness in a while, he muses as he saunters off to find a room to sleep.

"_Hey Liet...let's, like, find a non-sucky TV show...No, wait, I think my soap's on! Get your bootie over here!"_

And not even the voices can bother him tonight.

...

He wakes early. It's impossible not to; the wind's picked out and the long trailing fingers of a dead tree are rasping against his windowpane. He'd fallen asleep in the master bedroom, which was in amazing shade consider this home has been abandoned for over six months now. He rolls over in the still springy and comfortable bed, pulling his puffy feather comforter up to his nose. Damn; he hopes people in his land have the basic comfort of a fluffy blanket; it's been a long time since he has been this warm and relaxed.

Lithuania merely lies there for a while, watching the patterns the light creates on the floor as it shines through the pretty plane of colored glass hanging in the window. But his stomach grumbles, so he heaves himself out of bed, gasping at the cold air as he scrambles for his jacket.

There's a packet of instant coffee in the cupboard over the sink and Lithuania tries to keep from singing praises to heaven above as he digs through the garage to find a mini camping stove so he can heat water. Coffee was his lifeblood before the war, and the withdrawal symptoms had been awful – it's been ages and ages since he last had a cup.

It's bitter and runny, but it tastes like the nectar of the gods, and he goes through five cups as he packs his bag to continue heading home.

There's fresh snow outside, and it crunches as he steps out onto it. Six new inches. He groans and slaps his forehead; it's up to his knees which won't make for easy travel.

"_Aw, like, hell! I can't make it to my haircut downtown 'cause there is totes a ton of snow!" _

He shoulders his bag and begins to struggle in the direction that magnetic pull his tugging him in. He's barely cleared the neighborhood when he sees fresh footprints heading in the same direction as he is. He frowns and picks up his pace.

They wind all around the buildings, leading him deeper and deeper into the middle of town, past nice middle class homes and apartments rented out by young single kids in college, past the official government buildings and the hulking stone museums.

He finally finds their owner at the edge of a park, staring out at the ruins of the playground. It's a woman, with thick curly brown hair and big green eyes that glitter like the snow at high noon. She's wearing a thick purple parka and a green hat is crammed over her messy hair, backpack hanging from her hand. She turns when she hears his footsteps, and smiles tiredly. "Sad, isn't it?"

He nods, following her gaze. There are odd bumps in the snow near the slide and swing set. He wouldn't let himself think of what they are. "Yeah. It is."

She takes in a shuddering breath, rubbing wearily at her face. "I never thought something like this would happen during my lifetime," she murmurs, staring back out over the park. "I'm sorry. You're the first person I've seen in months," she says suddenly, turning to face him. Her eyes are bright, glowing in the brilliant sunlight. "I'm heading west, to England. Is anyone there?"

Lithuania hesitates, and nods, but says, "Yes, but you'd have better luck heading south to Ethiopia. I have friends who are heading there."

She cocks her head, looking curious. "Why aren't you with your friends? Lord knows we need them during these times."

"I was...looking for someone." It's not like he'll ever find him, but Lithuania will search for Poland until the end of time. "I might join them later, but for now I'm looking for someone?"

"A lover, or a friend?" the woman asks, raising a bushy eyebrow. Lithuania smiles sadly, turning his gaze to the piles of snow glittering in the distance, and the woman tisks. "Honey, you do what you gotta do, but I'm sure your friends miss you. Anyway, have you ever heard of a..." she takes a piece of paper out of her pocket and squints at it, "A...Liet?"

"...That's me," Lithuania says after he can get over his shock. "I'm Liet. Uh, actually, it's short for Lithuania, but friends call me Liet." Only one did, but this lady doesn't need to know that.

She turns her piercing gaze on him. "Huh. Odd name. Like the country, huh? Anyway, I have a letter for you here. I was given it by this weird looking blonde guy a few months ago – Feliks or something. Was he a relation?"

Isn't it impossible to survive if one's blood is ice in their veins? Lithuania's arms feel leaden as he raises them to take the letter and slit open the envelope with shaking hands.

He almost chokes up at the first sentence and he can't stop the tears from falling as he continues to read, dripping like raindrops to the fragile yellowing paper.

_Kay, so first of all, if you're not Liet just GTFO. Like, stop reading right now. 'Cause it's totes uncool to read other people's mail. It's downright rude, so just stop it._

_So, right now me, Eddie and Ravi are all trying to get up to England and stuff 'cause last time they saw Ivan he was headed up that way. They came down to find you and stuff, and found me instead. We're pretty sure you're not like, down here anymore so we figured we'd head after them. We're going up through Russia, part 'cause my place and pretty much everywhere around it are like, completely fucked up and hard to cross and part 'cause we're really hoping to find some familiar faces. Hell, even that bastard Ivan would be a welcome sight right about now, it's been ages since Eddie and Ravi saw him. But really, I'm like, desperate to find you right about now Liet._

_'Cause I'm pretty sure I'm dying._

_Bet'cha never thought you'd ever hear me say that, huh? But seriously, I know I'm like, a phoenix and I always come back, but I don't think I'm coming back this time babe. I'm seriously sick, I'm coughing and throwing up and shivering and all this other horrible crap and I'm kinda glad you're not here 'cause I look like freaking _shit_. Seriously, if you saw me like this, I'd never live it down._

_We're somewhere in your place right now, IDK where exactly, but I'm leaving this letter here 'cause I know you're going to come back to your country eventually and find it. Your place is almost as bad as mine, so I know you're gonna end up in this town eventually. There's this lady, says she knows you and stuff, who's refusing to let me move or walk or anything. It's kinda stupid, since she not making me any better or anything and I just wanna get outside. Eddie and Ravi are leaving soon and like hell I'm __letting her keep me here, so I'm gonna write this and leave it here with her. I know she's just trying to like, extend my lifespan or something, but I hate being stuck indoors and I'm gonna find you god damn it or die trying._

_Shit's lookin' pretty bleak right now Liet; Ravi's worried about Peter or whatever, Eddie's been quiet, not acting like the stuck up jerk he is. Hell, I'm not even acting like me, and I'm like, the most stubborn person in world. This is worse than when that bekart Germany threw me in a concentration camp, and that was pure hell._

_These guys are sharing their food with us, giving Eddie and Ravi supplies and whatnot. I'm going with them, and I don't like, care if I'm killing myself or whatever, 'cause I wanna find you and cry and sob and hug you until you can't breathe and I'm not gonna do that by sitting around here. I didn't go after you once, and I'm never gonna forgive myself for that. Like, ever._

_And I don't care what the hell Eddie and Ravi say, I know you're alive, 'cause if you were dead I would be too. So watch out Liet, 'cause I'm gonna find ya._

_Love ya and all that,  
Feliks _

He doesn't know when he collapsed to his knees, or when the sobs began to make his body ache with their intensity as they rip through him like a hurricane. He can't recall when he started screaming at the top of his lungs, begging Poland to come back because he doesn't want to be alone anymore, he misses him _so much_ and it hurts _so bad _and there is _nothing he can do to stop the pain_.

The woman's arms are around him and she is shushing him, trying to calm him as he rages and cries, screaming his grief out to the uncaring heavens, snowing melting in a circle around him as he curls up in on himself trying to make himself small enough to disappear.

He hadn't realized how much he missed Poland until now and now that that dam has been opened there is nothing he can do to stop the rush, the pouring out of all his anger and sadness.

And for once, Poland has nothing to say and all he can hear is his sobs, the woman's comforts and the quiet rushing of the wind blowing past.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Lithuania after he leaves England.**

After this, he continues on his way to his homeland. He finds a group of his people and begins to rebuild his life. He never talks about Poland to anyone since it is so painful and always keeps the letter in his pocket.

The letter was actually written by a friend of mine. Without the letter this would have not been written in all likelihood.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.  



	22. Denmark and Norway

Denmark thinks the winter sunrises are the best. They are late enough in the day that he is awake to see them, with fog hanging like a thick curtain over the dark expanse of deep gray ocean. The sun is a sliver of molten orange gold as it drifts over the horizon, turning the world shades of lavender and pale pink. It's late, although time is relative now with no real working clocks. Maybe if the world was normal, it would be close to eight in the morning. Denmark used to like to rise at six, but his grasp on time and reality is a little shaky these days.

The beach is empty except for him, damp sand crunching softly under his worn and torn thick black coat. His breath forms clouds in front of his face, white and ephemeral.

It is silent, except for the gentle lapping of waves on shore and the gentle howl of the whispering wind breezing by. The gloom of the early morning and the quiet is eerie, for there is no usual rushing of traffic. There are no city lights to pollute the sky. There is nothing but Denmark on a fog-laden beach, a few miles from his run-down home with no electricity and bad plumbing because the world is dead except for a few million people.

Denmark shudders as he inhales. The cold burns in his lungs; the salt air stings the raw cut stretching across his upper lip. It's been nearly two years since the last of the bombs, two years since the dust settled, and yet he is not used the silence that hangs like a cloud.

Denmark is not sure why he survived, why he lived when so many died. He knows that some wish he had died inside of someone else – he and Norway left England to get away from the accusing stares of those who loved Finland – _why do you live when he is dead and gone? Why did we end up with you?_

So they left. They are aware they are not the most sociable, gregarious people. Norway says that the quiet of the north is what suits them and they should have never left in the first place. They were in England long enough to make sure everyone was fine, that they weren't the only ones left in this cold new world.

And then they came home. Months and days and weeks are meaningless terms now. They spend some time in Denmark, then sail across the channel to Norway and repeat, endlessly. Life is about living, about trying to recover what they lost. Denmark tries to salvage his windmills. Norway works with his dams. Electricity will bring life (maybe). The work brings sanity (someday). Both are important in their own ways.

The wet sand is dampening his coat and a heavy chill is settling in the base of his spine. Denmark gets to his feet – _his knees crack as he stands; he's getting old – _and brushes the grim off his already dirty and ruined clothes before heading home, leaving a line of sunken footprints in the damp dirt.

...

Norway's at the lab when he gets home. Or at least, he's not rattling around their chilly house, griping about the distinct lack of coffee. No one's had coffee in nearly two years, but Norway still pines for a cup of black gold.

Denmark pines for normalcy – he wants Iceland and Norway sitting in the living room playing a board game, Finland and Sweden carefully working out the bugs in a computer program, Sealand clicking together his Legos. He wants the people he's known for hundreds of years to stand by him and see another hundred pass.

And a bottle of beer, but that's a given and Norway punches him if he mentions alcohol.

There's a bowl of cold porridge on the wood-burning stove with a bit of cinnamon sprinkled on top. Denmark smiles tightly. Norway can be sweet, in his own way.

The porridge is nasty and slimy when it's chilly, but there's no way to eat it up and cinnamon's so rare that Denmark gulps it down anyway, just to have the spice burn in the back of his throat. Once it's all gone, he sets the bowl down, staring down at the scratched green plastic flecked with the remainder of his breakfast and wonders what has happened to the world.

He wants a newspaper to read. He wants a phone so he can call up Prussia and make plans to go drinking later. He wants to be able to hope on the train, go to Malmö and bother Sweden.

His eyes are burning, and he grabs the soft skin under his neck and pinches, using the pain to ignore the dull ache beating, burning, in his chest. His neck is covered in dark little bruises that Norway pretends not to see and Denmark, in return, never mentions the scars that trail up Norway's thin white arms, slender and fine and so very delicate.

He puts the bowl down, turns away, staring blankly at the shadowy shapes that make up their cold and hollow home before he heads out to find Norway.

...

Norway is at the lab – an abandoned high school on the opposite side of town they use, along with what is left of their people, to try and build ways to get electricity. He's working on a model of a dam, long hair pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck with a piece of string – he's let it grow since the war ended; it hangs below his shoulder blades now and glows platinum, almost silver.

The flickering light of the candle burning next to him paints his face with warm oranges and golds, colors Norway normally lacks. He looks softer, gentler – kinder, even. He glances up as Denmark clicks the door to the old science classroom shut and his face softens before his eyes go hard and unreadable again.

"What are you doing?"

Denmark runs his hands through his spiky hair nervously. He needs to cut it soon; it's hanging down to his shoulders like a mop of heavy gold thread and is greasy because shampoo is almost impossible to find these days. "I was looking for you, but now I've found you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like to be away from you for a long time."

"Your dependency on me borders on disturbing, Denmark," Norway says flatly, turning his attention back to the model of the dam. He adjusts something, pours a little water into the mini-lake in the top section and scowls. "I think I could fix one of the dams in my land, Denmark," he mutters, tilting his head and studying his model, "But mechanics is not my area of expertise and there's a problem with the generator. The lines seem to be in working condition, as well as the grid, but it's the actual energy production that's holding me up."

"What's the problem?" Denmark asks, gliding across the room and leaning over Norway so he can see what he is doing. Norway helpfully shifts out of his line of view a bit, gesturing a tad despairingly at his diorama.

"I don't know. The generators back in my lands at that dam a few miles from that shore village. I can get them turning, but I can't hook them up to the grid at all, get electricity flowing through the lines. Can you think of anyone we know who knows anything about electricity or mechanics?" His tone is beseeching, almost pleading as he glances back at Denmark, blue eyes glowing the deep azure of the ocean in late summer in the gloom.

He doesn't say, _"If only Finland were here" _even though Denmark knows he wants to. Finland was the one with the talent with mechanics, with slender fingers that could coax any machine to life. But Finland's gone, and even though neither of them are skilled with electricity they are on their own now.

"Maybe we could," Denmark replies, squinting down at the model. The lighting's bad and his vision's been getting steadily worse as the years pass; he's growing nearsighted. At least the sun is drifting over the horizon to illuminate the room with a dull golden sheen. "I'll ask around. We'll find someone." Maybe they will, but finding anything these days is difficult beyond belief. Denmark knows that what Norway needs right now is reassurance and doesn't voice those sentiments.

Norway eyes his model for a moment more, then his gaze drops to the jumble of wires on his desk before he sighs and unties the string from his hair. "Let's go, Denmark. We need more fish."

"We were out all day yesterday," Denmark protests as Norway's hand slips down the ragged fabric of his shirt to tangle their fingers together as he pulls him towards the door. "Norge, let's not do something that's work. Let's have fun."

He can't see Norway's face behind the thick curtain of hair, but his voice is low, cheerless. "There is nothing left that's fun. Life is..." he trails off as he opens the door, and seems to forget what he was saying as they head down the hallway, leaving the door gently creaking shut behind them. Norway's memory fades some days; time and stress have worked their way through his mind, digging their fingers in. He forgets a lot – what he ate for breakfast, what he was just saying, the color of Iceland's eyes and the taste of Finland's food. Little things, really, but the little things that were all that ever mattered and now Norway's so damaged that all he can do is forget.

Denmark doesn't mind; he's damaged too.

Norway's hand is cool and very dry. Tiny pieces of dead skin flakes off as he meshes their fingers closer together. He tugs on his arm, and Denmark follows (he'll follow Norway to the ends of the earth and back again just so they can be the only ones left in the world with their hands intertwined).

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Denmark and Norway's side of the story, set after America's entry but before the epilogue. They head up back north.**

About the scars on Norway's arms - he is not a cutter. What he does is scratch himself. Yes, I know self-harm is cliche and whatnot, but really, when you go through enough emotional pain you need to have some outlet for it.

With this, I was trying to illustrate that it's the two of them against the world. Norway and Denmark, having lost pretty much everyone they care about - Iceland and Finland to death and Sweden to grief - can only depend on each other now.

Thank you for reading. Please tell me what you thought of it.  



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